


How to Find Your Way to the Center of a Spider’s Web

by sneeze_wizard



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But they are still very sad, Character Death, F/F, Femslash, Hurt No Comfort, Neither Amélie nor Lena die, Plot, Sad Ending, Slow Burn, Tragic Romance, Undercover, background Pharamercy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2019-11-01 17:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17871779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneeze_wizard/pseuds/sneeze_wizard
Summary: Lena Oxton goes undercover as an initiate in Talon, a London criminal syndicate, where she finds herself drawn into Widowmaker's dark orbit.





	1. Overwatch, Inc.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

“Oh, Christ – you again? Just let me sleep.” 

Lena Oxton made a habit of ignoring her alarm in the mornings. She also made a habit of talking to her alarm clock as if it were a sentient being. For the fifth time in thirty minutes, she hit the snooze button. But this time, she knocked over the half-finished bottle of whiskey sitting on her nightstand. The bottle broke, and its contents poured out onto the floor.

“Fuck _me_. Okay, okay, I’ll get up.” Her eyes popped open. It was Wednesday. She had work. She bit her lip and looked over at the clock. 9:30am. She was _late_ for work.

“Oh, hell.” She jumped out of bed, grabbed some clothes from a pile on the floor and started dressing. As she pulled a sweater on over her undershirt, she glanced at the broken bottle on the floor and groaned. “Bloody hell, I’ll deal with you tonight.”

She brushed her teeth but didn’t bother to fix her hair, matted in its usual criss-cross of cowlicks. Thirty seconds later, she was out the door, darting down London’s narrow alleys to the nearest Tube station. She turned the corner into the station, running down the stairs, weaving precariously through a mix of late commuters and tourists. Lena pushed through the ticket barrier and saw that her train was just departing.

“Oh _hell_ , I’m going to be even lat–” she glanced down at the faint blue glow of the chronal accelerator shining through her jacket and bit her lip. “Oh, they’ll murder me if they find out I used this in public.”

 _Blink_.

And she appeared on the departing train. A single man noticed her warp in next to him and nearly dropped his cup of coffee, mouth agape in shock, stammering wildly. “You just…you…were not here and now you just are…”

Lena gave him a puzzled smile before responding in the most chipper voice she could muster. “What’s in that coffee? Someone spike it maybe? Milk gone bad? You don’t look so good, luv. Take it easy.” She made her way to the other side of the car. The man looked down at his coffee in confusion and gave it a sniff.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she was climbing the steps to the offices of Overwatch, Inc. She’d get some snide remarks about being late, but she wouldn’t be fired for it.

It’s not like there was much work to go around for them. The entire existence of Overwatch, Inc. felt like a desperate attempt to make up for a failure. They were a group of washed out ex-Overwatch agents, who had nothing better to do than relive their glory days after the United Nations discontinued the program. If they took cases that were in the spirit of Overwatch’s mission, they told themselves, then they were still working toward that greater future that Overwatch had been dedicated to achieving.

But that was a lie. Before, they were on the front lines of quelling the unrest between Humans and the Omnics. Now they were investigating petty thefts and cheating lovers. Sometimes they’d find an omnic that had gone missing. Sometimes they’d step in and stop a bar fight. Their most successful mission to date was busting a small-time counterfeiting ring. Sure, it helped clean up the streets, but it wasn’t the same. The world wasn’t any better for what they were doing. If Overwatch, Inc. didn’t exist, some other hero wannabes would probably do this work in their place. No, they wouldn’t fire Lena. She was one of them. She’d been through it all with them. And it wasn’t like they had a real need for high-performing employees anyway.

Lena sighed deeply and opened the door to the office. No one was in the lobby, a sad room with a single worn out office chair, a magazine rack full of editions from five years ago, and a pathetic potted plant. She breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe no one would notice how late she was. She dropped her bag on her desk, pushed the heap of papers off her laptop and opened it up. Then she paused. She looked at the door to Winston’s office and saw two silhouettes in the window. A meeting? Curious, she shut her computer and opened the door.

Winston, a massive, super-intelligent ape, crouched at his desk, deep in thought. Leaning against the front of Winston’s desk was Commander – no, Lena had to correct herself – _former_ Commander Jack Morrison. Lena’s eyes widened at the Omnic sitting in the chair in front of him.

Mondatta was a renowned Omnic activist. Lena had always followed his efforts – admiring his attempts to fight for Omnic equality and his desire to bridge the divide between Humans and Omnics. She went to his rallies, kept books of his speeches, and dreamed of the better future he wanted for the world.

But why would he be coming to Overwatch for help? Overwatch wasn’t against his mission, of course, but it had also arrested its fair share of Omnics. Crime had to be dealt with, after all – even if those doing it had no other options.

Winston looked up at Lena and adjusted his glasses. “Oh Lena, there you are. Wonderful. Take a seat, take a seat. We’ve just been discussing a potential case with Mr. Mondatta here.” Despite his attempt at cheeriness, Lena caught a note of weary caution in his voice. Something about this case must be different.

Rather than take a seat, Lena leaned against the wall opposite Mondatta. She tried to play it cool, like she wasn’t talking to her idol. “I err…well, your honor…”

Mondatta tilted his head quizzically at her. Morrison stifled a laugh.

Lena blushed. “I mean, uh…what’s got a bloke like you coming to Overwatch, Inc. for?” _Nailed it_. She wanted to smack herself.

He hesitated, his metal shoulders slumped in a dramatic fashion. This struck Lena – Mondatta was a spiritual leader for the Omnics, known for his peaceful and collected demeanor. And Omnics as a whole weren’t exactly famous for flagrant displays of emotion, either. Something was wrong.

Mondatta spoke, his robotic voice taking on a hesitant and lilting tone. “You must forgive me if I appear different than how you would expect. I’ve been _feeling_ different of late as well. You see, I believe I am in danger. And I am…afraid. Ever since the police have started turning a blind eye to plight of Omnics, threats against me have been increasing. I thought Overwatch might be sympathetic to my situation.”

Morrison cleared his throat, his furrowed brow emphasizing the scar that ran over his forehead. “And you think Talon is behind it.”

“I do not know who else it would be.”

Morrison sighed and crossed his arms. “As you are aware, Mondatta, there are a lot of groups in this city who have it in for your kind. Human supremacists. Null Sector separatists. Funny thing–when you’re on the side of everyone getting along, there’s a lot of people who don’t want to get along with _you_.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the usual opposition to my work. But this time it seems different. I have found notes planted near my home. Acquaintances of mine have been hacked and destroyed. Omnics close to me have gone missing, only for their parts to turn up in junk shops, or worse–in the Thames. These are not the tactics of a disorganized group of miscreants or the Omnic separatists. They are more intentional. They seek to frighten us, perhaps to eradicate us altogether.”

Winston raised a paw. “I’m inclined to think there is something to Mondatta’s claims. He has a keen sense of what’s going on in the Omnic underground. There’s always the usual turbulence. But this does seem different.”

Morrison nodded, seemingly convinced. “Well, Talon or not, something needs to be done about them. Sounds like this is a good way to start.”

Winston turned toward Lena. “Lena. We think you can help Mr. Mondatta.”

Lena’s face twisted in confusion. “What?” She stammered. If she could barely talk to Mondatta without making a fool of herself, how in God’s name was she going to protect him from _assassination_? “I mean, of course I want to, it’s just…I don’t know much about Talon. Jack’s been gathering intelligence on them for years. But me?”

“That’s exactly why you’d be useful. Jack’s cover is blown – they know who he is. You, on the other hand, will be less familiar to them. The Overwatch division was disbanded shortly after you completed your training. We want you to go undercover.”

“You want me to go undercover? Winston, have you gone bloody _mad_? You know right well I’m the worst liar in London!”

“Just be yourself, Lena,” he answered. “There’s no gentle way to point this out, but you don’t exactly come across as high society. And you’re still young. You’ll do a better job at playing the part of a low-level recruit than any of us would.”

“Hey, you bastard, I resent that, I can be perfectly posh any time I–”

Morrison chuckled. “Oxton, your sweater is inside out. For the second day in a row.” Lena looked down at her attire and groaned.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back,” Jack continued, “and so does Angela. We’ll be your handlers. I’ll give you the rundown on how to do this kind of work, and she’ll be there if you ever find yourself in a bind.”

“Well it sure sounds like you geniuses have thought through all of this, except for one _tiny_ thing,” Lena huffed, tapping the chronal accelerator glowing faintly below her sweater, “what sort of gang member is going to believe that a ‘low-society street urchin’ like m’self–”

“You’re misquoting me, Lena, I didn’t say that.” Winston sniffed defensively.

“Quiet, you. No one in their right mind is going to believe that some low-level criminal is going to be walking around with _this_ on her chest.”

Winston grinned, adjusting his glasses. “Oh, I’ve been working on just the solution for this. A compact model.”

Lena slouched in defeat. As much as she wanted to take on any mission that helped make King’s Row a safer place, she was terrified at the idea of pretending to be anyone but herself. “I don’t have a choice in this, do I?”

Winston shrugged. “Well, we could always put you on desk duty – looks like you have a lot of unfinished paperwor–”

“Oh we won’t be needing that, luv. When do I start?”

* * *

A small alley separated a pub and a PC repair store on the ground floor of two old brick apartment blocks. In the alley was a nondescript metal door, brown paint peeling off of it. In the unlikely event that anyone were to pay the alleyway any mind, they would surely think the door led to the PC shop’s storage room, or perhaps to some utilities closet.

If someone were to be bored enough to walk into the alley and look at the rusted doorknob to the door, they might notice an angular letter T engraved into the metal. And then, most likely, they would be on their way – there isn’t anything remarkable about someone having scratched a random symbol into a rusted out door knob.

But if they stayed any longer than that, well then, perhaps they were part of Talon. And if _that_ was the case, they were likely in a lot of trouble. Few people left a meeting in the alleyway without a newfound fear of God. Some didn’t leave at all. This was where they were sent when they failed. When their time was running out. This was the Spider’s nest.

Up the stairs, through a passage, and another door, and another flight of stairs, was a final, black door. Beyond it was the office of Amélie Lacroix – or as she was known to those beneath her, the Widowmaker. Talon enforcer. Talon assassin. And soon, the woman who would lead the execution of Talon’s designs for London.

Thick purple velvet drapes covered the windows. Inside the office, rich mahogany furnishings adorned in candles and potpourri stood in sharp contrast to the safe house’s humble exterior. Beyond a second door were Amélie Lacroix’s living quarters. And hidden in every crevice was a security system designed to eliminate any unwelcome visitor as silently and discretely as possible.

Widowmaker sat demurely at her desk in an elegant, form-fitting black dress. A faint beep sounded from her computer. She crooked a slender eyebrow and tapped a finger on the mousepad. A gruff voice responded.

“Miss – Madame Widowmaker. I uh…we’re outside.”

Widowmaker’s lips turned down into a thin scowl. She resented his idiotic attempt at French. “You are late. Come in. Now.”

Moments later, two men in ill-fitting, dirty suits shuffled into her office. It took no small effort for Widowmaker to hide her disgust at their appearance. She could smell the booze on their breath from across the room. Worthless, unkempt brutes.

Widowmaker flashed a predatory sneer at them, causing them both to wince. “Sit, sit,” she cooed, and they obeyed, their anxious gazes never breaking from hers. The one on the right tried to crack a casual smile. It was unconvincing.

“I would offer you two some something to drink,” she continued, gesturing lazily toward the wine rack on the other side of the room, “but it seems from the look – and smell – of you that perhaps you have indulged yourselves already.”

The one on the right dropped his pathetic grin. “No, no Madame, we would never–”

A sharp hint of anger flashed across her golden eyes. “I would caution you not to lie to me, Mr. Watts. You see, I never send _anyone_ on a mission I can’t observe. I have eyes. Everywhere. And what I saw was not you dutifully attending Mondatta’s gala to collect information, but you shamefully hitting up a nearby pub.”

Watts’ partner spoke up, beads of sweat visible on his brow. “Let me explain. After we were denied entry into the gala, we went to the pub next door to ask anyone if they had any idea about how to get in.” He seemed a touch smarter than his associate, though this was not a high bar. Perhaps he was dragged into this debauchery. Pity. It would cost him.

Widowmaker’s lips curled up into a tight, insincere smile. “Is that so, Mr. Palmer?”

“Yes, Miss Widowmaker.”

“Very well. And one more thing, before you depart.” Widowmaker bared her teeth. “I normally would warn you to never use my code name in public. Even when you think you are alone. But, that is perhaps not very useful knowledge for you anymore.”

Watts looked confused. “Uh right, yes, very sorry Ms. Widow we won’t do it–”

“Silence. You won’t need to worry about following such a rule in the future. You see, when you entered the room, the security system covertly released a dormant toxin onto your skin. I have just activated it. You both will be dead in ten seconds.”

Their eyes widened in horror. Palmer sputtered wildly. “Please, no! Forgive me! I can make up for all of this, I can–”

“That will be all. Thank you for your service to Talon, meaningless as it was.”

And in unison, their eyes rolled back into their heads. They collapsed to the floor.

Amélie Lacroix rose delicately to her feet and moved toward the window, gazing absently at the brick building across the alleyway. She dialed a number on her phone.

“Hello. Please drop by to assist me in the disposal of some rubbish. Oh, and a second…unrelated request. I believe some new recruits would be in order. And let’s make sure they are somewhat competent this time, _non_?”

She hung up without waiting for a response.


	2. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena prepares for her undercover mission. A charity receives a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick content warning here – some gentle discussion of Christianity/religion from the POV of an OC. 
> 
> I promise I am not using femslash as a trick to try to convert you all.
> 
> This one's a bit exposition heavy, but I wanted to get it out of the way!

Lena spent the three days she had before going undercover doing the same things she usually did. She frequented her favorite pub, where she hustled a few games of billiards for some extra pocket change and attempted, with mixed success, to flirt with women.

And now, on her final night before her assignment officially began, she decided to go on a jog.

Jogging for Lena wasn’t the typical affair. She blinked from rooftop to rooftop and jumped between alleys and eaves, adeptly traversing the urban landscape.

Her jogs always ended in the same spot: the top of a high-rise block of public housing with a view of the downtown London skyline. She perched there, pulling her knees to her chest and propping her chin upon them.

Watching the sun set, Lena thought to herself that maybe spending the past three days at pubs, unsuccessfully trying to get dates that she couldn’t even go on because she was about to go undercover wasn’t the best use of her time.

She paused, realizing for the first time the strangeness of her situation. She was about to put her life on hold.

Lena blinked and snapped back to reason. _“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Lena,”_ she scolded herself. _“You have a clear objective: investigate any immediate threats against Mondatta. Report said threats. Go home. Try to find a date again.”_

She was worried for Mondatta, of course, but in all likelihood this was something that was relatively open and shut. Two weeks tops, Winston had said. Just enough to find out who knew what, and who needed to be arrested.

Still, something tugged at her. Lena frowned and shook her head. _“Two weeks.”_

She waited there until the sun had finished setting, and then some. Eventually, she accepted that it was time to go home. Lena stepped off the ledge of the building, twisted gracefully in free fall, and–

_Blink._

* * *

 It just so happened that Overwatch, Inc., shared a building with Ziegler and Associates, a private medicinal practice that seemed to serve very few patients, save for a few people in the neighborhood who dropped in to see about colds for their children, sprained ankles, or other minor ailments. That was because Dr. Angela Ziegler wasn’t exactly in the business of being a regular doctor. For all intents and purposes, her practice existed to support whatever schemes her old Overwatch colleagues cooked up.

Lena, Morrison, and Winston entered the office and made their way past the rooms where everyday patients were treated to where Angela did her actual work.

“Hey Doc, you in there?” Lena shouted through the door, knocking loudly.

“Not so loud,” hissed Winston, “she might be in the middle of–”

Dr. Ziegler opened the door, brushing a lock of golden hair out of her face. “Come in.” Her gentle smile had always been such a comforting sight, Lena thought.

The three of them entered, and Angela leaned against her examination table, spreading her arms out behind her. Lena’s gaze tracked over to the Caduceus Staff, a device created by Dr. Ziegler that had the ability to stitch together torn muscle and flesh, to repair even the most grievous wounds in seconds. Wondrous as it was, it gave Lena the creeps. She didn’t like looking at open wounds, and she also didn’t like watching them pop back together again like nothing happened. It beat dying, though.

Dr. Ziegler didn’t need to use the staff so much these days, anyway. Overwatch, Inc., rarely found itself in the business of dangerous cases. Sometimes Lena thought that Angela preferred it that way – without having to worry about patching up all sorts of dramatic wounds every day, she could spend more time on medical research. While most everyone else from Overwatch resented their situation, Dr. Ziegler seemed at peace.

“So uh, the big guy here tells me that you and him have been working on a smaller version of old Blinky here.” Lena tapped the chronal accelerator strapped across her chest.

Angela sniffed. “Is that what you’ve taken to calling it? It’s quite a sophisticated piece of machinery.”

She flashed Angela a stupid smile.

The doctor rolled her eyes. “As you are aware, Lena, the chronal accelerator helps keep you anchored in time. When Winston and I developed it together, we were a bit rushed, to say the least. We had to develop something to get you grounded as soon as possible.”

Lena winced at the memory of her time…there. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that she was nowhere. Jumping incoherently and maddeningly through time, at once existing in every moment and having never existed at all. An eternity in free fall, seizing and flailing and terrified and alone.

Lena had been the youngest person ever to enter Overwatch’s experimental flight program. And then she became the first person in history to fly into time. That’s how scientists came to the painful realization that the problem with flying into time was not so much doing it in the first place, but coming back. Would have been nice if they had figured that bit out beforehand. After her test flight failed, Lena disappeared for months. Winston and Angela spent countless hours doing everything in their power to bring her back.

That’s why Lena had stayed with Overwatch through everything. They could have abandoned her to the nothingness. Really, they should have. Nothing suggested she could have been saved at all. But they did, nearly working themselves to death in the process.

Angela reached into a drawer on her examination table, pulled out what looked to be a small jewelry box, and opened it. Inside was a necklace on a silver chain with a small blue pendant. It gleamed the same color of blue as the chronal accelerator’s glow, but did not give off light.

“This,” said Angela, gently handing the necklace to Lena “is a chronal pendant.”

Lena looked down in disbelief at the necklace in her hand. “No way, Doc. You’re telling me that this thing is the same as my accelerator?”

Winston cleared his throat. “Not quite the same. We had time to figure out how to compress some of the functionality of the chronal accelerator, but not all of it. This will keep you grounded, but you will be unable to blink or alter time with it, like you have grown so fond of doing.”

“You’ll have to walk like the rest of us, Oxton,” grunted Morrison.

“Aww…well, okay, fine, I can get on board with that.”

“It wouldn’t be safe for you to use the chronal accelerator’s abilities on this mission, anyway,” Jack continued. “Your average criminal isn’t usually seen disappearing and then reappearing again like nothing happened.”

Winston moved toward Lena and put a paw on her shoulder. “If you would be so kind as to remove the accelerator and leave it with me, I would like to do some research. Besides, we can’t risk anyone finding your accelerator while you are undercover. You’ll have to give up your pulse pistols as well – we’ll arm you with something more readily accessible to people on the street.”

Lena sighed, but obliged. She took her pistols out of their holsters and laid them on the table, then unclipped the accelerator and handed it to Winston. “See you soon, Blinky.”

“That’s the spirit! Thank you, Lena. On to our next order of discussion, which is how exactly this operation is going to work.”

Morrison crossed his arms and spoke. “Angela and I will be your handlers. Specifically, I have a lot of experience getting myself into the shadows, and Angela has a lot of experience getting people out of them. If you need help figuring out what to do next, I’ve got your back. But if you find that you’ve gone in too deep – call Angela. She’s brought me back from the edge of something terrible more times than I care to count.”

“But if things go as they should,” the doctor spoke up, “you should never have to call me.”

Jack nodded. “This mission will only last as long as it takes you to find out information about any plans against Mondatta. If and when you find out more information, we’ll extract you and strike to stop them.”

Lena palmed the chronal pendant in her hand, looking down at its blue gem. She hesitated for a bit, then looked up, mustering the most confident grin she could. “Understood. Anything else?”

“You don’t have to pretend you aren’t worried, dear,” Angela sighed before continuing on with business. “Here is your new ID and a key to your new apartment. It’s right next to a pub that Talon has been using to recruit new initiates. That might be a good place to start. We have done the work of scrubbing any hint of your real identity from publicly available sources.” She handed Lena an ID card that read ‘Lena Rowley”

“Are you serious, luv? You gave me the same first name? How boring is that?”

“Trust me, Lena. You’ll want to keep the same first name to avoid accidentally introducing yourself with the wrong name to the wrong person.”

“Oh but I could have had something fantastic and tough like Jess Dangerflame or…”

“That’s the dumbest fake name I’ve ever heard.” Jack retorted roughly. “Speaking of dumb fake names, you still get a code name for when you’re talking to us. We’ve decided on Tracer. Seemed like an apt metaphor, since you’ll help us figure out where to aim next.”

“Tracer, huh? I kinda like that.”

Winston grinned. “We thought you might. Now, there are still a few things the chronal pendant can do. Allow me to demonstrate…”

* * *

 

The Center for Omnic Aid was a small charity just outside King’s Row. It had all of two rooms and five employees, and was in desperate need of money. Ever since tensions between humans and Omnics had escalated to the highest they had been in decades, donations had dried up. London’s rich were more interested in keeping Omnics in line than in helping them.

Father Isaac Mulgrew had run his charity for the past twenty-five years. He was called to the work in the aftermath of the Omnic crisis. While no one could deny the the resolution of the crisis was a good thing, the chaos had left many Omnics in dire need of repair, on the brink of death itself.

He remembered the moment, years ago, when he felt his calling. While walking home from his church, he found a pile of wreckage in an alley. Or at least, it seemed like a pile of wreckage at first. He moved to pick it up and relocate it to the nearest junkyard when he heard a soft, electric groan emanate from the tangle gears and wires in his arms.

Faint robotic eyes met his gaze. He wasn’t holding a broken down machine. He was cradling something very close to a corpse – a living being, loved by God the same as Humans were, quickly approaching its final moments.

It was a life he had to save. Perhaps not a life granted by wind and breath, but a life granted by the creator nonetheless – life granted by intelligence and the duty to choose between good and evil: traits that Humans and Omnics shared with each other.

The Center for Omnic Aid provided free-of-charge repair for Omnics who had been abused, abandoned, or were otherwise at risk of death. These days, there were more patients than he could see. And recently, he had begun receiving death threats.

The idea of _repairing_ Omnics was abhorrent to the Human supremacists. They thought of Father Mulgrew as not only giving comfort to the enemy, but _arming them_. Their very existence was a threat. They were walking weapons, the line of thinking went, and the more broken they were, the better off humanity was.

These days, about the only money that Mulgrew was able to scrounge together for his charity was through Mondatta. While they didn’t share the same faith, they shared the same devotion to protecting all sentient beings.

Father Mulgrew finished his lunch and put the dish aside. He opened his email to find a few more rejection letters from former donors in his inbox, and sighed. He looked down and rubbed his eyes–he was running out of ideas, and he was _tired_. The hardest part about doing the right thing when it was needed most is that it seemed like the world conspired to make doing the right thing nearly impossible.

“You really don’t make things easy, do you?” He muttered, as if talking to God himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Nikolai – a ball-shaped Omnic topped with a propeller – whirred in, hovering five feet above the ground. Father Mulgrew had rescued him five years ago, and he now worked as the charity’s office assistant.

“Good afternoon, Father Mulgrew! I trust you enjoyed your lunch?”

“It’s the same lunch I have every day, Nikolai. Lentil soup and a slice of bread.”

“Fantastic!” Nikolai buzzed cheerfully. He was always a touch too excited for whatever the current circumstance was. Father Mulgrew appreciated him as a counterpoint to his usual state of disaffection, though it was sometimes a bit exhausting. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but it appears we have a visitor. She wants to speak with you.”

Father Mulgrew gave Nikolai a quizzical look. That was odd. Nobody dropped by unannounced anymore. “That’s a surprise. Did she happen to say what about?”

“She said she wants to help.”

Even stranger. “Well then,” Father Mulgrew spoke, “let her in, I suppose.”

“Wonderful! Just a moment.” Nikolai whirred away happily, humming some unknown tune to himself.

A tall, pale woman entered the room. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. She had an otherworldly sense of poise about her. Father Mulgrew instantly read her as coming from wealth. _A lot_ of wealth. She was the type of woman who would have countless Omnic servants on hand – not the type of woman who would show up to a charity like his. Father Mulgrew cleared his throat, stood up, and hesitantly reached out his hand. She shook it delicately and took a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

“I assume you are Father Mulgrew? I’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice was tinted by a gentle French accent.

“What brings you here, Ms…?”

“You may call me Amélie.” She smiled. “I want to sponsor your work. I have heard so many good things about–”

“Miss Amélie, please forgive me if this comes across as rude, but I am somewhat taken aback. Usually people of your stature have no interest in supporting what we do. These days, the wealthy live in fear of the Omnics and their allies, and we – well, we live in fear of _you._ ”

“Oh, but that is the problem!” She tugged at the long black sleeves of her dress and let out a sad sigh. Her amber eyes looked down, and she continued, darkly. “I am ashamed to say that I used to be like the others. But now I see what a selfish and cruel life I led. I have done so little to make the world better. I have so much – and I cannot bear to think about those who have so little.” Her gaze met Father Mulgrew’s, and it took him aback. Something seemed…wrong with it, but he nonetheless found himself unable to resist. He was convinced.

“If you were to give, Ms. Amélie, I can tell you that you would indeed make this world a better place. Any amount would mean more than words can say.”

“Five million a month. I will give you five million a month.”

“What?” Father Mulgrew’s mouth fell open. Who _was_ this woman?

“I simply ask, dear Father, that you give me a place on your board. I do not want to interfere – I just want to be able to see and learn about the work that you are doing.” She delicately pulled a check from her purse, already written for five million pounds.

Father Mulgrew stammered. “We don’t really _have_ a functioning board, but–”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh that is no issue! Not at all. Please allow me to help with anything you need. I just pray that what I am doing is enough. Here – I must go, but this is my contact information.” She slid a card across the desk. “I will be in touch.”

“Yes, of course.”

The woman smiled and nodded curtly, then left, shutting the door silently behind her.

Father Mulgrew sat stunned, staring at the check for nearly twenty minutes, until Nikolai buzzed back in.

“Hello again,” he beeped. “How was the meeting?”

“It was…miraculous.”

* * *

 

If anything, Lena Rowley’s apartment was nicer and better kept than Lena Oxton’s, despite being right above a known haven for criminal activity.

Lena decided not to think too deeply about what that meant about the state of her personal life.

She sat on the edge of her new bed, testing the springs. The mattress was a bit…lumpier than she would have preferred, but it would do. She clutched at her pendant, a habit she had already taken to. It felt weird not having the weight of the chronal accelerator on her chest – she had grown so accustomed to it. Playing around with the gem on her necklace reassured her that yes, she was anchored to this reality and wasn’t going anywhere.

Well, as anchored to reality as one could be when they were a time-warping detective about to go on an undercover mission to stop an assassination plot.

_No, she couldn’t think like that_. She was not an undercover detective. She was a down and out girl trying to be something bigger – trying to make her living. Trying to join the toughest crew around. She was Lena Rowley, not Lena Oxton.

Lena flopped back on the bed and sighed, squeezing her eyes shut. “Ok, I have to get in character. My name is Lena Rowley. I got fired from my last job for fighting. And the one before that for fighting. And the one before that. Now there isn’t a pub in the city who wants me. So I’m looking for a job that will see my record as a good thing.”

She shot up and looked in the warped mirror on the wall opposite her bed. She tried to make her toughest, most intimidating face. “Oh that won’t do me any good, that’s not scary at all.” She blew out a puff of air, pushing a cowlick out of her face. She’d have to prove she was cut out for Talon. What if she got a bunch of tough-looking tattoos, skulls and the like? No, that wouldn’t do – then she’d be stuck like that forever. She already looked like an elf, she didn’t really want to go around looking like a _technicolor_ elf.

“ _I guess I’ll just have to curse up a storm or beat someone up,”_ she thought. “ _Or better yet, curse up a storm_ while _beating someone up. That should do it.”_

She leaned back again and closed her eyes. Eventually, Lena Rowley, the new resident in the apartment above the Rat’s Roost Pub, began to drift off to sleep.


	3. A Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manic pixie bar fight.

Lena peered over her hand of cards at the one-eyed man sitting across from her at the poker table. He definitely looked like bad news. His button-down shirt did little to conceal the muscles beneath it. Old scars criss-crossed his unshaven face. A lit cigar hung out of his mouth, which seemed frozen into a permanent scowl.

She was almost certain that he was part of Talon. First off, he wasn’t exactly shy about betting a lot of money – maybe his last job paid well. Second, everybody else at the bar seemed afraid of him. And third, he just looked like an all-around bad guy. Lena’d been trying to get his attention for the past three nights with no luck. She hadn’t had much success getting anyone’s attention, for that matter. Nobody at the pub took her seriously.

The Rat’s Roost was by anyone’s definition, a _really shitty bar_. There wasn’t a single table with a full set of legs on it. Stains covered every surface. The floor was splintered, water-warped, and failing. Surly bartenders served piss-poor drinks at dirt-cheap prices. Just looking at the place made Lena want to shower. But there was something rather charming about it. At least it was a place where she didn’t have to worry about keeping up with any sort of standard. Well, except for the standard of looking tough enough not to get the shit kicked out of her by a bunch of gang members.

“Full House. I win again,” The one-eyed man pulled the pile of chips toward him. The other players at the table jeered at him, and he glowered back. “What? You lot not used to losing? Am I to assume you bunch are too scared to go again, then?”

Lena had a plan. “Sure, I’ll take you again. Got a good feeling about this next round – I’ll deal.” She grabbed the deck before anyone could protest and began shuffling. The one-eyed man grunted with irritation, but didn’t stop her.

She won the next round. And the one after that. And then three in a row. Now the man was paying attention – and he didn’t look too happy. He gnawed at his cigar, furious. Lena shot him a bright smile. “One more round, then? Winner take all.”

“Yeah, sure.” There was something dangerous and plotting in his voice. “I’ll go _one more round_. You shuffle.”

As Lena started shuffling the deck, he leapt across the table with surprising dexterity for a man of his build, sending cards everywhere. He grabbed Lena by the collar, pinning her against the nearest wall. The scam was up – the cards she had hidden in her shirt and sleeves fell out onto the ground. The raucous bar had gone silent. The whole place was staring at them.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking guts, _girl_ ,” he spat. _“_ What’s gonna stop me from kicking the life out of you right now?”

Success. Lena grinned. “Well now that I’ve got your attention, I have a question to ask you.”

* * *

Gabriel Reyes was already waiting for her outside the council chambers. Of course he was wearing that hideous skull mask of his. Ever since he had earned himself the nickname Reaper, he wore the garish thing like a point of pride. “Finally, her royal highness has arrived.” Amélie noted the attempt at humor in his eerie voice.

“Attempting a career as a comedian, are we? If you do not mind me saying, it is not in your best interest.”

“No wonder the council is so eager to talk to you,” he shot back,“you’re so much fun to be around.”

She ignored his remark and moved toward the door. “You are delaying us. Let’s proceed.”

Talon’s leadership sat behind a long, black table. Full meetings like this were rare. It was risky for all the syndicate’s leadership to gather in one place: If someone were to strike during the meeting, the entire line of succession would be in peril. A meeting like this meant that the topic of hand was of great importance. Amélie was pleased with her invitation to the council. They trusted her. She was becoming more powerful within the organization.

Talon’s leader, a man known only to the rest of them as Doomfist, cut an imposing figure at the center of the table. He was practically a giant – barrel-chested and well over six feet tall, his left arm was the size of a tree trunk. But that was perhaps the _least_ impressive part of his physique. His right arm was a massive bionic fist, twice as big as his left. He was strong enough to cause earthquakes simply by punching the ground. Amélie had always been in awe of his power, even if she preferred more subtle ways of getting things done. He extended his bionic arm toward her in greeting. “Widowmaker. So glad you have arrived.”

Next to him sat the other Talon council members – Moira, a scientist; Sanjay, a leader within the powerful Vishkar corporation; and Maximilien, an Omnic casino magnate with a lot of ambition and no loyalty to his kind.

Widowmaker gave a polite nod to the council. “I am grateful for the invitation. For what purpose have I been given this honor?”

“Reaper has told us about your successes in collecting intelligence on Mondatta’s activities and securing our influence in the city,” Doomfist answered. “We’ve been most pleased with what we’ve heard.”

Amélie nodded. “Cementing control over our North London territory has been easier than I anticipated.”

“This is good news. I believe your success in this regard will allow you to pursue a side project for us.”

She looked up. “Oh?”

“As you know, Sanjay and Moira have been conducting experiments into the hard light technology developed by the Vishkar corporation. We intend to take it further. The plans that we have would allow us not only to construct physical objects from hard-light, but to bend the very fabric of reality itself. To create weapons that no army can withstand. But there are some within Vishkar who are starting to suspect that Sanjay is one of us. We must keep this a secret. Sanjay must not be ousted from the company. We believe that a local Vishkar affiliate plans to reach out to London police about him. We can’t have that happen.”

“I see. And you want me to take them out.”

Doomfist nodded. “Have one of your underlings seek out their location. Once you know more, prepare a strike against them. Reaper will assist you, of course.”

“Of course, sir.”

“That will be all. Reyes, see to it that Widowmaker is escorted comfortably out of the building.”

* * *

Once they were out of earshot of the council, Amélie turned to Reaper with a smug smirk. “You should take a lesson from Doomfist. He knows how to talk to a woman.”

“Chivalry is wasted on you, spider.”

Amélie chuckled. “Still hurt by my rejection, then?”

Reaper laughed mirthlessly. “I’d rather choke than be with you.”

Despite their rivalry, their shared mistrust of one another, and the constant insults, Gabriel was the closest thing Amélie had to a teammate. He was the closest thing she had to a _friend._ Of course, neither would admit that to one another out loud. But they both took comfort in knowing that if one of them was threatened, the other would always show up, guns drawn. No questions asked.

The sharp buzz of Reaper’s comms device interrupted their quarrel. Widowmaker crooked an eyebrow. “Oh, perhaps a girlfriend calling? I’m hurt.”

“Hold your tongue,” Gabriel hissed as he answered the call. “Reaper. What now?”

The panicked voice on the other end was loud enough for Amélie to hear.

_“Sir, there’s a situation at the Rat’s Roost. A fight. We can’t get it under control.”_

* * *

Widowmaker and Reaper arrived at the Rat’s Roost just in time to see one of the dumber Talon recruits come crashing out the window, glass flying everywhere. She rolled her eyes. Why did Reaper let his men make complete fools of themselves at this bar? She would never let her team behave this way. Better five competent men than fifty of his.

Reaper let out an almost animalistic growl. “What in the ever loving hell? What are those jackasses doing?” He kicked open the door to the pub.

“What the fuck?” He froze in disbelief at the scene before him.

Several grown men lay prone on the ground, groaning in pain. Broken chairs and barstools littered the floor. The brawl was still in progress on the other side of the bar. A petite, brown-haired woman grappled with a group of much larger Talon initiates surrounding her. She looked like swift wind might carry her away, and yet the entire bar was _losing_ to her.

Reaper roared. “We will kill every last one of you if you don’t end this _right now._ ”

That got them to stop. The woman stood straight and turned around, running a hand through her messy hair.

Amélie laughed, relishing in her rival’s embarrassment. “Reaper, what has become of your team? Such a mess – and their combined strength is not enough for this pathetic _girl?_ ”

“Hey! What’d you say that for? Take a look around you, lady – pretty clear I’m not so pathetic.” The sound of her voice did nothing to correct Widowmaker’s initial judgment. She moved toward the girl and grabbed her by the shoulders, appraising her. The smaller woman gulped melodramatically and let out a nervous squeak. Her wide, brown eyes reminded Amélie of a lost, frightened puppy. But she could see that the girl was athletic. There was strength in her wiry frame.

“Explain yourself, girl.” Widowmaker sneered.

“Oh well, I’m new to the area and I stopped by for a bit to drink and –”

Amélie slapped her across the face. The girl hardly flinched at the sudden blow. _Interesting._ “Stop. That is not the question I asked. Why did you do this?”

“Well you see that big guy over there? With one eye?” She gestured to a worse-for-wear looking man slumped over in a corner. “I reckoned he’s part of Talon, and I wanted to ask him some questions. So I might have hustled him in a game of poker to get his attention, and well, one thing led to another and all of a sudden the whole bar is after me!” The girl lowered her voice as if revealing some closely kept secret. “And you know what? Now I’m thinking maybe _everyone_ in the bar is part of Talon.”

“Oh really?” Amélie’s voice dripped with venomous sarcasm.

A look of confusion crossed the girl’s face. “Say, luv, what brings a classy lady like you to this kinda joint? It’s swarming with Talon fellas.”

Annoyance and disbelief bubbled up within Widowmaker. “I _am_ Talon, you foolish girl. How in the world did someone as _small and stupid_ as you cause all this damage?”

“Well you know,” the girl’s lips curled into a playful smirk, “hard to beat a woman who knows how to use her hands.”

She scowled at the girl’s tasteless double entendre. “You have ten seconds to convince me why I should not kill you now.”

“I want to join Talon.”

“You…what?”

“That’s right! I want to join Talon. Heard it’s good money. Got kicked outta me last job for fighting. And the one before that. And the one before that. Now there isn’t a legitimate business in the city who’ll hire me, and a girl’s gotta eat, you know. Figured you lot would have less of a problem with the fighting bit.”

Widowmaker shoved the girl down to the floor, whirled around on her heel and glared at Reaper, who was still seething in disbelief. “We should apprehend the girl. I will see to it that she gets her first… _assignment_. And perhaps if she survives, we can discuss her membership in Talon.”

Reaper nodded and turned to the few of his men in the room who were still standing. “You four. Cuff her, bring her to holding.”

The girl called out as Amélie walked out of the bar. “Not even going to ask my name, luv?”

 _God in heaven_ , her utter insolence.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have given this kudos and commented!


	4. Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets ambushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added an archive warning for graphic violence. Wasn't sure how graphic it would be when I first started writing this, but please be warned that there's some blood in this one, and there will likely be other violent scenes in the future.

Oliver Black shut down his laptop for the day and looked into Father Mulgrew’s office. Of course he was still working. He wished his boss a good evening and said goodbye to Nikolai, who was busy typing up some report or another.

“Oh! Leaving so soon, Oliver?” Nikolai whistled, his thin robotic arms clacking away at his computer while he hovered above the keyboard.

Oliver smiled. “Unlike you, Nikolai, I’ve got to stop working sometime.”

Nikolai whirred defensively. “I do have to power down on occasion, you know.”

“I know,” chuckled Oliver. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He put on his coat and headed outside, shutting the door behind him.

Oliver hated how quickly night fell in the winter. He was never one for the darkness. It was barely six o’clock, but the last hints of sunlight had faded below London’s rooftops. The city’s chimneys, eaves, and spires cast shadows across the roads and alleys. It was beautiful in the daylight, but at night the city’s shadows seemed to choke and press down upon him, pulling him into despair. The wind whistled and groaned through the streets, and he pulled his coat closer to his face. Maybe he needed a therapist.

It was always on nights like these, windy and cold and especially dark, that he imagined things could jump out at him from the shadows. Of course he knew this was an irrational fear. He cleared the thought from his mind and pressed on, rushing home to make dinner, catch up on some reading, and get to bed early.

As he turned a corner a few blocks from his apartment, he heard a faint cry. It sounded like a cat – maybe a kitten. Perhaps it was stuck? He looked around him and saw some movement coming from a group of rubbish bins. Oliver approached the trash cans and began to gingerly push them aside, trying to find the source of the noise.

With a sudden jolt, the lid to a trashcan flew off. The sound of aluminum hitting cobblestone rang through the alley with a sharp crash. A stray cat jumped out of the trash and scurried off. On its way out, its hind legs hit the trashcan and caused it to topple over. The domino effect was almost deafening – trashcan toppled into trashcan, metallic echoes filling the alley as their contents spilled everywhere. He groaned to himself, not wanting to have to clean up the mess he helped cause.

Oliver didn’t hear the sound of footsteps over the commotion. But then he turned around. Cold, golden eyes met his. His breath caught in his throat.

Something blunt cracked against his skull, and his vision went black.

* * *

Of course Lena had let herself be apprehended. The Talon brutes jostling her down toward the gang’s makeshift holding cell in a hideout a few blocks over weren’t _actually_ any match for her. Yes, they had her handcuffed, but they hadn’t bothered to restrain her legs. A good kick would have been enough to cause enough panic to let her escape. They stopped in front of the cell. It was really just a small supply closet with a sturdy door. One of them fumbled around in his pack for a key.

They really didn’t have their act together, did they? He should have had the thing out and ready before they got there. If she wasn’t _trying_ to get caught, this would have been the perfect opportunity to break free.

“Easy there, blokes! Not very gentleman-like to rough a woman up like this,” Lena teased.

One of them grunted. “Stop talking. You’ve caused enough problems as it is. Count yourself lucky that you’re going into this cell and not a bodybag.”

“Oh it’s not luck, luv.” Lena winked.

“Shut up!”

Finally, the one with the key managed to fish it out of his bag. They threw her in the closet and slammed the door shut, locking it. “Don’t try anything stupid,” one of them jeered. “This place is loaded with guards. And as you learned in the bar a bit ago, you’re no match for ‘em.”

Lena chuckled at that last bit. A bit of made up history to serve his fragile ego, no doubt. Their heavy footsteps eventually faded away, and she began pacing around the ‘cell.’ Yes, it was definitely just an old supply closet. Shelves with boxes lined the walls. In the boxes were assorted papers. Lena made a note to read through them if she ever got the chance, but decided not to risk it now – she had no idea when someone else would be coming in, and rummaging through written evidence was probably not the best look.

Despite the clutter, there didn’t seem to be anything she could use to help her escape. Not that she was trying to do that. At least whoever chose this place as a holding cell knew what they were doing.

She made her way to the back corner of the cell and slumped against the wall, dropping to the floor. It was about as comfortable as she could get with her arms pinned behind her pack. Moving around was definitely more awkward with handcuffs. She exhaled sharply and blew a tuft of hair out of her face.

_Well now I’m bored. I wonder how bloody long they’ll keep me up in here._

Despite her earlier bravado, she conceded to herself that the guy who threw her in the cell was right. She _was_ lucky that they decided not to off her right then and there in the pub. Not only did she uncover the fact that they were _all_ Talon, but she beat the crap out of them in the inevitable fight that ensued. A fight that she _sort of started_ by cheating at poker. In hindsight, her plan was incredibly reckless.

The adrenaline that had propelled her through the fight was wearing off, and she could feel herself getting tired. Her eyelids sagged. Just before she fell into unconsciousness, her thoughts drifted to the woman at the pub. She had stopped Lena from getting killed, hadn’t she? She made it seem like a threat – but the woman was saving her life.

——

Some time later, she was abruptly awoken with a sharp _click_ from the sound of the door being unlocked. She blinked, her vision coming into focus as she forced herself to wake up. Her mouth was dry; her head ached. Oh Christ, was she hungover? Lena groaned. _New low, you idiot. Hungover and handcuffed in a fucking supply closet._

The door opened. The woman from before walked in. Alone. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed.

“Morning, luv,” Lena croaked. “Hey you don’t happen to have some water or fruit do ya? I’ve got a hell of a hangover.”

“Silence.” The woman never raised her voice, but she didn’t need to. Even the softest whisper from her felt like the threatening growl of a beast. It scared Lena into silence. Not an easy feat, really.

The taller woman slowly approached. She was remarkably put together – black hair in a tight ponytail, black dress fitting her form perfectly, not a single speck of dust out of place. Everything about her was immaculate. And because of that, she looked entirely out of place in the messy storage room. She didn’t belong in the same universe as the sleazy, brutish crowd she led. Hell, she didn’t belong in the same universe as Lena, struggling through her pounding hangover. She must have been akin to a queen, Lena thought, who ruled this shambles underworld with equal parts mockery and disdain.

God, she was the prettiest, most frightening woman Lena had laid her eyes on.

“Why are you here?”

Lena could have asked her the same thing.

“I told you, luv. I want to join Talon. Though now you’d think if I had any sense in me I’d be having second thoughts.” She laughed nervously. “But here I am, aren’t I?”

The woman’s hand snapped forward and found Lena’s jaw. She looked her up and down with a contemptuous sneer. Her hands were soft, smooth, and _cold_. Lena swallowed and closed her eyes, a shiver running up her body. With another hand, the woman deftly removed Lena’s handcuffs.

“Like what you see?” Lena’s whisper was the meekest act of defiance.

“You will prove to me that you should live. Perhaps you are not as incompetent as the fools you picked a fight with in that disaster of a bar.”

“I can assure you I’m not.” Lena opened her eyes to see golden eyes gazing back at her, boring deep, analyzing her every detail.

“You will pick up a shipment at the following location.” She dropped a card with a set of coordinates scrawled on it by Lena’s feet. “You will report to me who brings you the shipment. If you fail to do this, your luck with me will run out. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The woman flashed her a vicious smile. “Good,” she cooed, letting go of Lena’s jaw.

A pang of regret surged through Lena; she found herself involuntarily leaning in the direction of the woman, seeking out her touch again. She stopped herself. _Get a fucking grip, Oxton, she’s gorgeous but she’s also a fucking nightmare._ Lena shook her head and spat out the saliva that the woman’s grip had let pool in her mouth. She bit her lip and looked up at the woman, who was making her way toward the door. “Name’s Lena Rowley, by the way.”

The woman looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “I make a point not to learn the names of people who may soon die.”

* * *

 The warehouse was the type of place nobody went to with good intentions. Rust crept over every inch of its doors and walls. Paint peeled, exposing crumbling gray concrete beneath.

Metal chains hung from the ceilings, stacks of boxes and metal walkways above cast long shadows in the twilight.

Lena kept one hand on the gun at her waist and clutched the briefcase in her other hand tighter. She felt out of her element without her chronal accelerator and pulse pistols, but this would have to do.

A woman approached from the opposite entrance, flanked by a group of bodyguards. She wore a blue gown that contrasted with smooth, dark skin. Her dark hair was pulled up into a tidy bun. The men around her looked worse for wear – strong and muscular, but worn down by a life of hard drinking, or perhaps worse substances. Lena figured they were hired bodyguards.

What was it with all these elegant goddamn women surrounding themselves with London’s worst? What kind of world had Lena stumbled into?

She cleared her throat. “I’m Lena. I’m here for the weapons shipment. I’ve got the money.”

The woman motioned to Lena’s pistol. “You can’t have that. My men will disarm you.”

One of the bodyguards yanked the weapon from Lena’s holster. She didn’t resist.

“Good,” Soft relief colored the woman’s voice.

“Wouldn’t try to pull any funny business on you. I just want the weapons and I’ll be on my way.”

“Show me the payment. Don’t move forward.”

Lena nodded and slowly opened the briefcase, holding it out in front of her. The woman moved closer. She appraised the stacks of money inside and gave a satisfied nod. But she did not take the suitcase. Lena waited, heart pounding, while she waited for – _prayed for_ – the woman to carry on with the transaction. Instead, the woman looked up at her, suspicion flashing through her eyes.

“Now tell me,” she spoke, “how would you have known that we have these weapons? It’s one of our most closely guarded corporate secrets. There should only be twenty people in the world who know of the existence of this shipment. And none of them are _you._ None of them are _Talon_.”

Something Lena didn’t understand had just happened. But she did understand that the woman had just said something very, very, bad. _Fuck_. “I…was just told to meet you here, I don’t know anyone’s–”

_BANG_

The bodyguard on the woman’s left collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The woman shouted, grabbed a strange-looking weapon from her waist and leapt out of the way, aiming upward in the direction of the gunshot. “Apprehend the girl!” She shouted to her remaining bodyguards. One of them swore and lunged at her, drawing his gun.

“Bloody hell, who’s shooting?!” Lena leapt out of the way of the bodyguard, his lumbering frame no match for her agility. She slid between his legs and leapt up, kicking him in the back and knocking him to the ground. The delay gave her time to grab her abandoned pistol on the ground, and she somersaulted toward a row of metal shipping containers for cover.

Gunshots now rained down like a hailstorm. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

One of the guards ran toward her. Lena closed her eyes and let out two bullets in his direction. He screamed and fell to the ground. She jumped up from behind cover and took out another one.

Now she was reeling – who had started shooting? _Why?_ More bullets came down in her direction and she ducked, but one narrowly grazed her side. It stung. She felt a surge of nausea, of dizziness. _Keep it together_. She breathed hard, heart pounding. She looked over the shipping container for the woman in the blue gown.

The woman was running toward an exit. But then, a man appeared in front of her. From nowhere. From the shadows themselves. From the depths of a nightmare. He wore a metal mask carved into a demonic skull, grinning down evilly at the woman.

It was the man from the pub. He drew two pistols and fixed them on her.

“Pity. But such is the what happens when you stand in the way of progress.” Devoid of the rage and disbelief from before, his voice was nearly inhuman. Nearly.

The woman shot a barrier of light from her gun, and the man flinched, shielding his eyes from its blinding glare. “Damn you, woman!”

With the little bit of time she bought herself, she whirled around in the other direction, running toward Lena.

Lena reached for her pistol and weakly aimed it in her direction.

The woman paused for a moment, then shot a barrier of light toward Lena, blinding her momentarily, and darted away.

As the weapon’s flash faded out of her eyes, Lena looked down. She had been more than grazed by a bullet. Blood poured out of her side. “Oh hell…” The world began to spin and darken.

Through her blurring vision, she saw the masked man move past her with an almost ghost like stride. He was catching up to the woman in blue.

Lena closed her eyes and tried to stop herself from vomiting. Her heart pounded, her ears rang.

Two gunshots. And then the woman’s scream.

 _Oh no. Oh no, no, no_ … Lena collapsed to the ground.

And then – sirens. The steady thrum of helicopters. The bright lights of a police barricade surrounding the warehouse. A voice over a loudspeaker.

“This is the London police! We have you surrounded. Do not attempt to flee.”

In her wounded delirium, Lena thought she saw shadows creeping around her. She laughed to herself. She was hallucinating, the life was rushing out of her. “What a waste, huh? Going out like this.”

“You will not die today.” That ghostly voice again. “Perhaps the Widowmaker was right to keep you.” She felt strong arms hoist her upward, and everything went black.

* * *

 It was little consolation for Satya that she was finally able to confirm her suspicions. Sanjay Korpal was involved with Talon. Because now she knew that for nearly all of her adult life, she had been working to empower a league of criminals. She had given everything for Sanjay – had hurt people and wrecked dreams in the name of the future he sought to create. He had deluded her. Now, because of Satya’s help, he was on track to control all of Vishkar. She knew that this would tug at her conscience for the rest of her life, however long that would be. Hopefully her plan to take him down would be enough.

It was an elaborate scheme. She had developed a new hard light weapon entirely on her own, made secret from everyone. _Except_ for Sanjay Korpal. She told Sanjay that there were twenty people in all of Vishkar that new about the new technology.

That was a lie. Only she and Sanjay knew. And that was how Satya knew that Sanjay was Talon’s mole in Vishkar. And everything made sense. Sanjay’s ruthlessness. His disregard for the human consequences of his plans.

Satya had once been dedicated to the mission of the Vishkar corporation. To the designs that Sanjay had for the company.But now…now she was tired, bitter. She wanted to escape. Vishkar was corrupt, filled with heartless men and women who only sought to gain from the accumulation of wealth and control.

And Sanjay was the worst of them. Connected to a murderous crime syndicate that seemed only to care about power. She hated herself for having spent her life in service to his plans. So she decided to take him down. To go to the London police.

And here they were, the police rushing in to save the day, to bring Sanjay and Talon to justice.

Except they were too late. The Talon operatives were gone. And she was dying.

She looked down at the pool of blood she lay in – it was _her blood_. Oh god, there was barely anything left of her. Reaper had left her for dead – no, he thought she _was_ dead. She looked dead. That was a trick of the hard light. In the last desperate moments after he fired the gun, she flicked a switch. The illusion made her look like a corpse.

But it wouldn’t be an illusion for long. She needed medical attention.

She flicked off the hard light field and began crawling toward the police barricade.

“What the _hell?_ ” A police officer shouted somewhere to the side of her. “She just came back to life!”

“Somebody help her! Move, move, move!”

Footsteps rushed toward her. Oh god, she hurt, she hurt, she hurt. She was screaming, screaming, screaming.

A policewoman with a curious tattoo under her eye ran toward her. She injected something into Satya. “This will keep you from dying for the next hour. But it’s all I have. I’m bringing you to the hospital.”

The patch on her vest read “Sergeant Amari.”


	5. Recovery

 

Amélie closed her eyes and took a sip of wine, letting its taste linger on her tongue.

Years ago, there were nights when Amélie Lacroix would wake up, cheeks wet with tears, clutching at the bedsheets as if someone should have been there next to her. She could never get back to sleep on those nights.

That never happened anymore. Now it was rare that she felt anything at all. Her years in Talon taught her that emotion was a dangerous luxury. But sometimes she just wanted to feel _alive_ again. So she pushed herself to feel something; she made a sport out of it.

That was why she did it, wasn’t it? The man from Father Mulgrew’s charity didn’t need to be taken. There were simpler ways to get the information she needed. But the chase reminded Amélie that the flicker of life was still within her.

Pity upon Oliver Black. He was simply the means to an end, and that was all.

So what was it that bothered her this evening?

She ran a slender finger along the rim of her wineglass. The girl.

What a strange sight in Talon, she was. So hopeful and naive. In the pub, the girl had smiled. A real, genuine smile. And it made Amélie ache like she did years before. The ache she felt when she woke up in tears, searching in vain for someone next to her.

She took another sip of wine. _Why?_

The Widowmaker had been like her once. She had destroyed that part of herself in order to survive. And here was this foolish girl, about to do the same thing to herself. If she couldn’t, Talon would do it for her.

Amélie had sent her to off to a risky meeting with no backup. If it turned out to be a trap, the girl would either die – or something would die within her. The thought caused that ache to reveal itself to her again.

Even though Amélie didn’t care about her at all.

She looked at the clock on the wall. The girl was scheduled to conduct the exchange in just a few hours. Her eyes darted to the phone on the table. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she called Reaper. He picked up after a single ring, like he always did.

“What now, Spider?”

“I regret sending that girl on her mission alone.”

“What? You mean from the pub?”

“Yes.”

“It could simply be a routine exchange.” His response was slow, as if he was calculating what to say next. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“Nothing. It is what I have chosen it to be.”

* * *

 

Gabriel hung up. Widowmaker hadn’t asked him to do anything, but he knew she wanted the opposite.

It was rare that his counterpart had second thoughts about a decision. And as far as he could tell, there never seemed to be any underlying logic behind the ones she did regret.

He would never understand her.

“Why do I bother?” He asked the air around him. It didn’t answer back.

Reaper grabbed his jacket, his guns, and stepped out into the London winter.

——

He found a vantage point by a cluster of crates on the warehouse’s upper level. The shadows cast by the metal rigging in the corner would hopefully work as camouflage. For now, he would just watch.

Soft footsteps scraped the ground below him. The girl from the pub walked hesitantly into the warehouse. She had an old handgun at her waist.

_You should have kept it hidden, you idiot._

Naïve little thing. What was it about her that had caught Widowmaker’s attention? Maybe that’s all it was. There certainly was something intriguing about someone like her wanting to join Talon.

_This world will break you, girl._

More footsteps, now. Coming from the other direction. There they were.

Reaper recognized Satya Vaswani from times she had accompanied Sanjay at Vishkar events.

_Of course it’s Satya_ , he thought. He almost laughed at how sickly poetic this scene was. A guilty woman trying to flee the world she helped create, facing down an innocent thing foolishly trying to enter it.

She was flanked on either side by a squad of rough-looking men. Probably bodyguards for hire. But one of them looked familiar. Gabriel searched his brain trying to place him.

They disarmed her. _That’s why you keep your weapon hidden._ The familiar man stepped forward and grabbed the gun from her. Reaper cocked his weapon just in case.

“Open the briefcase. Do not move forward,” Satya commanded. Lena obliged.

What were they up to? Reaper scanned the scene below him for a clue.

Satya continued. “Now tell me, how would you have known that we have these weapons?”

_Shit._ It was a trap.

And then he remembered the familiar bodyguard. Reaper had seen him during a police raid on a Talon hideout. He was a cop. This was a sting. Vaswani wasn’t about to go to the police – she had _already_ gone to them.

He started shooting.

* * *

 

_You will be in the hospital for several weeks. You’ll get sick of the food. Half of the time it’ll be cold or stale. By the end of it you won’t want to look at a styrofoam plate ever again. You’ll probably never eat another fruit cup in your life. Ask someone to throw the flowers away – there’s nothing more depressing than waking up alone in a hospital with a bunch of dead flowers next to you. Trust me, I’ve been here before._

The police sergeant came to visit twice a week to ask more questions about the case. But she always stuck around afterward, just to talk. Sergeant Amari was honest with her, which Satya found comforting. She needed the realism. Satya had spent her entire adult life figuring out how to turn illusions into reality. Figuring out how to shape reality, change reality, how to _run away_ from reality.

Now she couldn’t. It was a welcome change, in some ways. Except for the fact that she’d likely be in physical therapy for months after this. And then afterward she would have to move away, change her name, go into hiding.

It was Thursday. The policewoman would be visiting her soon. As if on cue, the detective walked through the door.

“Sergeant Amari.”

“Please, I’ve said you can call me Fareeha.”

“Right.“ Satya looked out the window next to her bed, tracing the patterns formed by the tree’s branches in her mind, memorizing them, imagining them sprouting and growing and stretching into a vast forest, lush and green and a world away from the cold hospital. “What will my life be like after this?”

“Difficult.”

“But will I be safe?”

“As safe as you can be. We will find a place for you out of the country. You will have a new name and a special number to call if anything happens – or if you think anything is about to happen.”

“Thank you.”

“We should be thanking _you_ , Ms. Vaswani. You’ve risked everything to do an incredible public service.”

“I suppose so.”

“Now, I know you are tired, but if you don’t mind, I would like to ask a few more questions.”

Satya’s eyes glazed over. She didn’t really have an option, did she? There was a dark humor to it all. In order to escape her old life, she would have to spend the foreseeable future consumed by it, reciting every detail to the police in exchange for her freedom.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

_THUMP._

Somebody shoved Lena onto a stretcher in the back of a van and pulled the door shut. Who was the guy next to her? Oh right. The scary bloke with the mask. But he didn’t have a mask on now. She really _did_ need to learn his name.

The van started moving. No, it was a truck. No, a van. They’d been on the road for ages. No, they had _just_ started moving. Fuck, her head hurt.

Lena was engulfed in a strange delirium. Everything whirled around her. Her vision cut in and out.She tried to remain conscious, but wasn’t quite sure what was consciousness and what was hallucination. At a certain point, she stopped trying to figure it out.

The van turned a corner. And then another. It stopped. She passed out, then woke up again. The man next to her gave her an injection of some sort – that seemed to help with the pain, to make her a bit more alert.

She turned her head over to him, trying to get a sense of what he looked like. Maybe he had a beard? No use, she couldn’t really see straight. “You’re real, right? Are you the skull man?”

“Don’t talk. You don’t have the energy to talk.” He definitely sounded like the man with the mask.

The man knocked on the divider separating the back compartment and the driver’s seat.

_Fading. How much farther?_

_Soon._

_Radio her now and tell her we are on our way._

_Yes, sir. What are her plans?_

_Hell if I know, but she was…_

The van veered to the right, and Lena’s stomach knotted in response. She threw up, nothing but bile and blood, but the force of it was enough to cause her to pass out.

——

The sound of the door dragged her back into consciousness. “Am I in an alley? Say, none of you happen to be doctors, do you?”

“I said no talking.”

They brought her into a building, made their way down twists and turns of hallways for what felt like ages. It was almost as if the place was intentionally difficult to navigate. The motion caused Lena to heave again. One of the men carrying her stretcher cursed.

She woke up again some time later, now out of the stretcher and in a makeshift hospital bed. The men who carried her in shuffled around, setting up medical equipment around her. The man from the warehouse stood by the door, talking to someone.

“What happened?” A woman. Oh. It was _her_.

Lena passed out again.

* * *

 

What was that feeling? Relief?

No, it was something else. Something more sinister. Amélie leaned against the wall and fixed her gaze to some point beyond Gabriel’s head, as if looking at him would let him discover what she was thinking.

She could see him shift out of the corner of her eye. “It was Satya Vaswani. The men she brought with her were undercover police. They were going to arrest the girl. So I stopped it.”

Of course. The girl Sanjay had always dragged along. Something about her had always seemed as if it was about to break, like she was teetering on the edge of something. And now, Amélie supposed, it had finally happened.

Reaper continued. “She’s dead now.”

“Good.” Widowmaker noted how she felt nothing for Satya. The ache gnawing at her chest was something _else,_ then. What wretched feeling was stirring within her? She wanted to know, so she could kill it.

“About the girl, Amélie. She surprised me.”

Her eyes briefly met Gabriel’s, then she looked away again, worried he would read something in them. If he did, he didn’t show it. “What do you mean?”

“She held her own.”

“You carried her in on a stretcher.”

“And she took out two men despite it all.”

Widowmaker raised an eyebrow. “Did she?” _Lena Rowley_. Amélie recited the name to herself, letting the thought of it twist in her mind. Who was this girl, who showed up from nowhere to join Talon? All energy and optimism and confidence, an attitude bound to kill her in company like this. Who was this foolish girl who despite all of that, survived when she shouldn’t have? Like someone she had known long before.

Amélie stopped at the edge of that thought and fled from it. There were corners of her memory that she dared not go. “I’ll take your recommendation into consideration, Reyes.”

“See to the girl, Amélie.” His otherworldly voice was almost gentle. Almost. “So you can reassure yourself about sending her out there.”

She hated that he had noticed her vulnerability. “I need no reassurance.”

Gabriel frowned. “Only you know what you need. I will notify the council and Sanjay of our resolution of this issue.” He turned to walk away.

“Thank you for intervening.”

Amélie didn’t see the faint smile on his face, but she could hear it. “Of course.”

* * *

 

Lena groaned. Everything hurt.

“Christ, what a _night._ The fuck did I drink?”

She tried to roll over, but something tugged at her arm. “What?”

Lena looked down. It was an IV. She looked down to see bandages wrapped around her torso. The memory of the night before rushed through her. _Was it the night before?_ How long had she been out?

Golden eyes peered down at her, sending her into a panic. “What the hell? Scared me half to death! Watching me _sleep?_ ”

“You are awake then.” Her ability to project complete indifference was truly a marvel. “You will be well within a few days. The medicine is of an experimental nature. It allows for rapid recovery from even the most serious wounds. Your performance in the last mission has shown that it is worth spending this resource on you.”

“Well I’m glad I’m worth more than a bloody corpse to you lot, then.”

Now was probably not the time for attitude, but _god,_ Lena’s head hurt and she was delusional and scared and she wanted nothing more than to give Angela a call. Just to hear the voice of someone _sane_. Christ, how was she already in this deep? It wasn’t safe to try to contact Overwatch. Not here.

Lena squeezed her eyes shut and let out a deep breath. Whenever she was in trouble, Lena _ran._ But now she couldn’t. Her limbs ached and weighed her down. The woman, with her icy gaze kept her pinned to that godforsaken bed, plunging deeper into whatever pit she had already managed to get herself into and yet…

There was this other part of her that was eerily _fine with it all_. The part that came alive, sent her heart beating faster when she awoke to see the woman above her, and…

This was the woman who sent her to die without a second thought. This was the woman whose command led her to shoot down total strangers.

Now Lena’s life depended on this woman, who was so fundamentally different from her. A woman who thought nothing of killing, who sought power for its own sake, who kept her emotions hidden beneath a facade thicker than concrete – if she even had them at all.

And it was impossible to look away from her. _Jesus, Lena, get a grip._

So now what? If she told Angela or Jack about the firefight she would be pulled off the case immediately, and she could get the hell out. But then she would have failed. Lena didn’t have anything on the plot against Mondatta.

It was almost as if the woman sensed Lena’s conflict.

“Are you still so foolish as to insist upon joining us, Ms. Rowley?”

Well she couldn’t really say no, could she? They’d definitely kill her then. “Yes.”

The woman said nothing for the most uncomfortable stretch of time. Lena could feel her eyes poring over her, taking in every detail. Her whisper broke the silence, something Lena couldn’t identify betraying her icy tone. “Good.” She reached a hand forward and gingerly ran a thumb along Lena’s jaw, toward her hairline. Lena shivered. Her fingers weaved their way through Lena’s hair.

And for what felt like the millionth time in recent memory, Lena felt ready to pass out. But now, she wasn’t so sure it was from her injuries. And was the woman _smirking?_ Oh god, half of Lena wanted her to stop, and the other half…well…she really needed to stop acknowledging that part of her.

“Now I suppose it is my turn to wonder. You’re not even going to ask my name?”

Oh, how she wanted to know what it was. “No.”

The woman chuckled. “Perhaps I deserve that. They call me the Widowmaker.”

“Charming. Now get your hands out of my hair, then.”

_But really, please don’t._

Widowmaker stood up, stretched, and yawned. A cat who had tired of toying with its prey. “I’ll have a new assignment for you soon.” She lingered in the doorframe. “I am Amélie. Call me that.”

* * *

 

The only light in the room was the red glow of the clock near her bed. _3:00 AM._

Lena heard a muffled buzz – her phone. She got up, weakly dragging the IV with her, and crept to the other side of the room, taking every effort not to make any noise. It was a message on the encrypted communications app she had buried within several intentionally mislabelled folders. From Jack. They’d most likely heard about the warehouse by now, hadn’t they?

_Confirm your safety._

Lena stared down at the text. She started to type a response, but deleted it. What the hell was she going to say?

_Safe._

It felt like a lie. It _was_ a lie.

Jack wrote back instantly. _“You hear about the warehouse?”_

Did they know she was there? No. If they did, the whole place would be raided by now.

If she told them, she’d be off the case. They’d get her out and clean up what they could. She needed to tell them.

_“Only bits and pieces. They’re keeping whatever happened wrapped tight.”_

Another lie.

“ _Figures. Let’s meet in person on Sunday evening.”_

Lena looked at the calendar on her phone. Wednesday. She had only been out for a night, thank God. Hands shaking, she typed her reply. “ _See you then.”_

Shit. _That’s what you get for lying, Lena._ Why _did_ she lie? The thought of Amélie ran through her mind. _No, no, not her. She’s not why. We’re not thinking about_ her _right now._

There were more important things to think about, anyway. Like not showing up to her meeting with Jack looking like she had just survived a gunfight.

 


	6. Keeping Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive any typos! I'm sleepy and this one's a bit longer than the others, so my eyes started to cross a bit when editing.

 

Unprecedented, Amélie thought. A meeting with the full Talon council for the second time in a week. Again, Reaper waited for her at the door. He didn’t have his mask on this time. Widowmaker’s counterpart gazed at her expectantly. His scarred, stubbled face was tired. It had been quite a week, she supposed. Reaper had a lot of work on his hands cleaning up the mess that Sanjay had created with Satya.

“No jokes about my timing today, Reaper?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

He scoffed. “Let’s go in.”

The mood in the council chambers was far less congenial this time. Doomfist sat in the middle of the table again, glowering at Sanjay, who wore a grim expression. The hulking man turned his head to acknowledge Widowmaker’s arrival.

“Finally,” he growled, “somebody _competent_ enters the room.”

Widowmaker gave the council a polite nod in greeting, her eyes briefly lingering on Sanjay. They were not pleased with his foolishness in keeping Satya around for so long. In being unable to sniff out the trick that she had played on him. _Poor fool_ , she thought.

“We were just talking to Sanjay about his _error_ ,” Doomfist explained before continuing his line of questioning. “Despite her obvious misgivings about the tasks you had given her, Sanjay, you continued to assign her _more?_ ” His voice grew louder, almost yelling now. The entire room seemed to shake with his pent-up rage. Amélie was grateful that she had yet to be the target of this man’s anger. Doomfist closed his eyes and frowned, rubbing his temples in thought. _“_ The information that she gave to the police is dangerous. And could potentially take Talon down. We will send Sanjay into hiding for now, so they can’t find him using whatever information Satya had given them.” He looked at Sanjay. “And perhaps, the time in hiding will let you _think_ about the consequences of your error. We need Vishkar, Sanjay. We need your technologies. Do not fail us.” The air in the room seemed to reverberate with the weight of Doomfist’s threat. Even his words felt like they could set off an earthquake.

“Yes. I understand, sir.” Sanjay’s voice was barely above a whisper. That of a resigned, frightened man. A man who now realized that he was not as smart as he had thought. An embarrassed man, fooled by a woman far smarter than he was. Something about that last thought pleased Amélie, even though she knew they were all worse off for his failure. 

“In the meantime,” Doomfist turned again toward Widowmaker and Reaper, “we need to create a diversion in order to ensure that London’s police forces are stretched thin. That will hopefully buy us enough time to thwart their investigation into Sanjay. We must also accelerate our efforts in gaining influence in London. I trust that you know how to do this.”

Ah, now was her time to dazzle them. “I will begin putting my plan into place immediately.”

“Good.” Doomfist took a deep breath. Amélie’s assuredness seemed to calm him. “I will be in touch with you about the plans for a diversion, Widowmaker. And one more thing. Despite Sanjay’s obvious failure, you and Reaper did well in containing the threat. Reyes told me about the associate you assigned to conduct the exchange. You would do well to keep her.”

 _Lena_. Amélie smirked, feeling a faint sense of pride for the girl. “We are satisfied with her performance.”

* * *

 

They weren’t kidding about those drugs. Of course, they weren’t as effective as Angela’s staff, but there Lena was, two days later and back at her apartment above the Rat’s Roost. She still had a bandage on her side where she had been shot, but the pain in her side was barely more than a dull ache – and the bandage was easily hidden under a layer of clothes.

Maybe by tomorrow she could go on a jog.

Lena opened the door to the apartment. Everything was in place, the same as it had been when she had left it a few days ago. Of course it would be, why wouldn’t it?

But it still felt strange. Her entire world had been completely blown apart, and honestly, if she came back to find the apartment totally different or completely trashed at least the scenery would match the total shambles that she felt on the inside.

Lena sat on the edge of her bed, looking down at her palms, slowly opening and closing her fists. The fists that held the gun that shot two men. Maybe _killed_ them. She didn’t even know them. They didn’t even start the fight.

_No. You were defending yourself. You would have died if you didn’t. You nearly died anyway. They were going to kill you._

The thought was only a small comfort. She bit her lip.

Her meeting with Jack was in two days. She needed to get herself together for it. What was she going to tell him?

 _Oh hey, Jack! Yeah about that warehouse gunfight – turns out I lied to you and I definitely was there, funny thing right? Maybe I killed two men and nearly died in the process but hey_ , _don’t take me off the case because I definitely have this whole thing under control._

Lena ran a fist through her hair and groaned. She’d have to workshop it.

The soft scrape of a letter sliding underneath her door interrupted her train of thought.

Weird. Her mailbox was downstairs.

She walked toward the door and picked up the letter, running her fingers over the graceful script on the envelope. It simply read, “ _For Lena_. _”_ Whoever had delivered it obviously knew who she was and where she lived. Which was worrisome, seeing as how she hadn’t really told anyone either of those things. Her eyes darted back toward the envelope and she tore it open.

Lena fingered the smooth paper in her hands. The brief message written on it read: “Tomorrow evening. – Amélie.” A set of numbers, probably coordinates, were written beneath the signature.

Blood rushed to her head and her mouth went dry. A chill ran through her. She was being watched, wasn’t she?

Part of her didn’t really have a problem with that.

* * *

 

On the roof across the way from Lena’s apartment, a woman lay on her stomach, watching.

Rain began to fall. It dripped against Lena’s window. It would have been hard to see without the rain, but now it was impossible. Widowmaker lowered her binoculars and smirked. The girl had gotten the message. Droplets of rain fell against her back. She didn’t much mind the feeling, but _did_ mind that she could no longer see the girl through the window.

She didn’t know why she was there. Other than that the girl was interesting to her. Something about Lena gave her relief from the emptiness that filled her, that weighed her down.

Widowmaker chuckled to herself bitterly. Why should she lie to herself?

_It is because I want her._

Such an innocent girl. Wide, brown eyes. Messy hair. So arrogant. Fragile. _Temporary._ Amélie knew how Talon destroyed those like Lena. Amélie knew how _she_ destroyed girls like Lena.

She wanted to protect her. To ruin her. To pull her close and keep her from the world she had just entered. To corrupt her. To ravage her. _She wanted her._

What a foolish path Amélie was about to walk.

She took one last look at the girl’s window, streaked with rain. “Au revoir, Lena.”

* * *

 

It was still raining the next day. Lena stood across the street from a worse-for-wear looking pub and a P.C. repair store, clutching the umbrella so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. With the other hand, she grasped at the chronal pendant around her neck. Surely this couldn’t be the place, could it? There wasn’t anyone around.

She looked down at her phone. Her coordinates matched what was on the note exactly. She heard the sound of a door open somewhere and glanced up.

In the alley across from her stood Amélie. Perfect as usual. Terrifying as ever.

Almost involuntarily, Lena walked forward. She crossed the street, toward the woman. Amélie’s gaze burned through her. The taller woman motioned to Lena’s umbrella. “Put it away.”

Lena did as she was told.

“Come with me, chérie.” Amélie gently placed two fingers on the small of Lena’s back, guiding her into the building. Lena stifled a squeak and attempted to glare at the woman. It was unconvincing.

They walked upstairs, took a turn to the left, then the right, right again, left again. Another winding series of hallways. _They really didn’t want to make it easy to get around in Talon, did they?_ Lena tried to focus on the twists and turns of the hallway, and not on the woman who seemed to relish in invading her personal space. Tried not to focus on the gentle brush of fingers against her arms, her back, her hips.

They stopped in front of a door. Amélie leaned closer and whispered, breath hot against Lena’s ear. “Here we are.”

Lena tried to stifle a groan. She couldn’t. “What are you doing?”

Amélie simply laughed. She opened the door and pointed toward the coat rack. “Do not leave a mess.”

Lena walked inside and noted how different the room was from the rest of the building. Yes, it seemed like the kind of place Amélie would stay in. All velvet and dark colors. Opulent and luxurious. Somehow tasteful and entirely over the top at the same time. She ran a hand along the mahogany paneled wall next to her.

Widowmaker shut the door and made her way to the wine rack on the opposite end of the room. “Something to drink?”

Something about the question didn’t exactly make the request seem optional. Amélie poured a glass of red wine for the both of them. “Sit, sit,” she said, gesturing toward the couch.

Lena sat slowly, pressing herself against the arm of the couch in an effort to put as much space between her and the other woman as possible. Maybe she’d get the hint.

Amélie approached, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Of course she got the hint. And ignored it. She sat next to Lena, hips touching hers, and leaned in.

Lena stiffened and looked down at her drink. She could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. Bloody hell, she probably looked the same color as the wine already.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Lena took a sip from her glass. She didn’t know much about wine. “Is this expensive or something?”

The woman chuckled and ran a finger along Lena’s neck.

Lena shivered and shut her eyes. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to lean into the woman’s touch. She wanted to run out the door and never look back. _Who the fuck was this woman, what the hell was her deal?_ Threatening Lena one minute. Sending her to her death. All cold and calculating and now less than an inch away and _not taking a bloody hint_. Well that wasn’t exactly true – she saw through Lena’s useless attempt at a hint.

_Ugh, why do I have to have a thing for the bad ones?_

“What’re you doing?” Lena’s voice cracked halfway through her question.

“Giving you your second mission.”

“It doesn’t really look like that’s what–”

Amélie’s lips brushed against Lena’s ear. “Silence. On Wednesday, the Center for Omnic Aid is having a vigil for a member of theirs who has gone... _missing_.”

Lena didn’t like the way she said that last part. She recognized the charity. They did good work helping Omnics who had been abused and neglected. Mondatta occasionally held events for them.

Amélie continued. “I am a member of the charity’s board.”

“What the fuck?” Lena really needed to control her outbursts better.

“I told you to be quiet. While the Center is distracted with the vigil, I will _need you…”_ Amélie rasped the last two words. Lena almost swooned. “You will enter Father Mulgrew’s office and find a few files for me. They contain important information about Tekhartha Mondatta.”

 _Mondatta_. She needed to tell Jack. Lena took another sip of wine, hoping to hide her reaction from the woman, who was currently looking her up and down. Fortunately, it seemed like she was interested in _other_ details about Lena at the moment. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Mmm. One more thing,” the woman purred, breath on Lena’s cheek. Lena swallowed, willing her hands not to reach out and pull the woman closer. _No, no, no, you idiot that is the last thing you want to do. You do not want anything to do with her, she is_ the bad guy _and you are trying to take her down._

Lena exhaled and looked up at Amélie through half-shut eyelids. Suddenly the inch between them felt like too much. Amélie leaned forward and placed one hand on Lena’s hips, pushing her down. With the other hand, she snatched the wineglass from Lena and placed it on the coffee table beside them. Then she leaned forward again, lips just a hair’s breadth from Lena’s.

Lena groaned. “Keep going.”

The woman simply smiled. “Do not forget your coat on the way out. I will see you on Wednesday.”

“Are you bloody serious? What the hell was _that_? You’re just gonna tease a girl and–”

“Bonne nuit, chérie.”

* * *

 

They met where Lena wouldn’t run across any Talon members.

Jack stood on a bridge in downtown London, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Lena walked up to him and leaned against the railing of the bridge, flashing him a nervous smile.

“How’s it goin, Morrison?”

He took another drag and growled. The rain was making it more difficult. He gave up and put out the cigarette.

“Good to see you, kid. Updates?”

Lena paused and lowered her head. She hadn’t figured out what story to give Morrison.

Morrison turned around, back against the bridge and looked at Lena. He folded his arms. “It’s only been a week – don’t feel like you have to have the world’s most detailed report.”

 _It’s only been a week_. That thought sent her over the edge. It had only been a week and yet she was reeling and nearly died and couldn’t stop thinking about – nope, she was going to stop thinking about her and that was that – and had already lied to Jack and then it all came out because she had to tell _someone,_ because it had _only been a week_ just like Jack had said and she was already going bloody mad and…

“I lied to you, Jack.”

“You lied to me?” He didn’t sound angry. Or very surprised.

“I was at the warehouse.”

He didn’t move. “I need another smoke, then.”

Lena opened her umbrella over the two of them in order to let him smoke more easily in the rain.

“Thanks.” He lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled, letting the smoke form a cloud between them. Lena coughed. “Sorry, I know you hate the stuff.” He took another pull. “Why’d you lie?”

“Because I was afraid you’d take me off the case. I almost died. Talon saved me.”

He frowned and rubbed his eyebrows. “They did? So you’re building a reputation there, then. That’s good.”

“That’s why I don’t want to be taken off the case.”

 _Well, that wasn’t the only reason, a part of her thought._ She tried to shut that part of her up again.

“So what happened at the warehouse?”

“I don’t really know. They asked me to conduct an exchange of some sort. Whoever I met with tried to confront me about something – but I don’t know enough to tell you about what. Then someone started shooting.”

Jack nodded. “And that meeting got them to trust you.”

“I think so. And now my next task is to find information on Mondatta’s whereabouts.”

Morrison’s eyes flashed. “Damn. That’s a lot for a week.”

“I’m sorry for–”

“No. Don’t apologize. Don’t lie next time. But I’m not taking you off the case. Just let me know if you’re in danger. But we need you to get that information. _I_ need you to get that information.”

That wasn’t quite the response that Lena had been expecting from Morrison. She looked at him, puzzled. “Jack. I _shot at people_. I think I killed them. I–”

“We’ll keep that part to ourselves. You’re getting closer to them, Lena. We need to take them down. Just tell me when you need help.”

Lena let out a deep breath. “One of their leaders has taken an interest in me.”

“Good. Leverage that connection.” He tapped ash out from the cigarette on the side of the bridge.

“No, Jack. It’s more than a professional interest.”

A pause. “A woman?”

Now Lena felt like she needed a smoke. “Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

Something stopped Lena from saying her first name. “She goes by Widowmaker. I think she’s dangerous. The real deal.”

A dark look passed over Jack’s face. He took a final, long drag and stomped the cigarette out on the wet sidewalk beneath them. “That’s useful. Leverage that.”

Something welled up in Lena’s throat. That was _definitely_ not the answer she was expecting from Jack. And oh, did part of her want to give in to the impulse – but she was afraid. Afraid of what would happen to her if she got too close to Amélie. Jack didn’t know this woman. He didn’t know the terrifying, beautiful gravity to her.

Part of Lena wondered how she would come back.

“I’m scared, though.”

Jack smiled. “You’ll be fine. Keep in touch. Keep me updated.”

“And Angela?”

“Change of plans. Between you and me. We’re not going to update Angela on this part. Call me first.”

Lena didn’t say anything in response. They stood in silence for the next fifteen minutes, watching the rain fall onto bridge and spill out to the river flowing beneath them.

* * *

 

Sometimes Jack would open a bottle of whiskey and go through the old files. He’d trace his thumb along the pictures of the people he once knew. His old friends. The ones he had lost.

After the meeting with Lena, he did it again.

He sat down at his desk in Overwatch’s tiny office and opened up the drawer that he only looked in when he was in one of those moods. He brushed the dust off of the file within it.

It was the closest thing he had to a scrapbook, he thought to himself.

What a remarkable life he had lived. What a remarkable life he _still_ lived. He had seen more, done more than most people could even dream of.

Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about what he hadn’t been able to do.

He hadn’t been able to save Overwatch. He hadn’t been able to stop Talon. He hadn’t been able to save his friends.

He thumbed through the profiles of the people who had disappeared. The people who had been lost. The people who he loved and trusted and would never get back and never even got to say goodbye to. He took another swig of whiskey.

And here he was. Talon presenting itself to him anew. Maybe now he could put an end to the failures that had dogged him for so many years.

Lena was right to be scared. He was probably pushing her too hard. Angela would be furious if she found out about the warehouse. About whatever woman was courting Lena. About his insistence that Lena keep going with the mission – dangerous as it was.

But he needed this. This story had gone on too long.

Maybe Lena was the one who could finally move them on to a new chapter.

“I hope you understand, kid.” He said to himself. “I hope you can do it. I hope you can forgive me if it’s too much. It’s been too much for all of us, for so long.”

He lingered over the folder for a few minutes longer. Trying to remember the voices of his friends. Their memory was starting to fade from him. He hated that.

Eventually he dropped it back into the drawer, shut it, and left.

* * *

 

By Wednesday, Oliver Black had been missing for over a week. Father Mulgrew had grown more sullen by the day. Bad things had happened to a lot of people he knew. But this was the closest to home. He lost sleep. He found himself unable to leave the office. His once clean-shaven face had grown a scraggly half beard. Bags had formed under his reddening eyes.

Nikolai, normally completely oblivious, had even taken notice of the change in his demeanor. That’s how he knew it was bad.

Tonight was the night of the vigil. And what good would it do?

But Amélie was insistent upon it. She had such a good heart. What an odd woman. Why had she come to him now, of all times?

He pored through the papers again, hoping that some sort of hint would reveal itself to him about Oliver Black’s whereabouts.

Nothing.

The lack of sleep wasn’t helping him figure it out either.

He didn’t want to admit to himself what he probably should have. It had been a week. If they found him, he most likely wouldn’t be alive.

The wind howled outside, carrying a slip of paper with it. It fluttered against the window for a brief moment, and then blew away.

Mulgrew recognized the pattern on the piece of paper. It was one of those damn pamphlets again. They had started handing them out after Black’s disappearance. The pamphlet blamed the wealthy, the police, the government for Black’s disappearance. Suggesting that the reason the politicians and the police had been so uninterested in doing anything about the increasing threat against Omnics was because they were secretly _behind_ it all.

It was inciting violence as far as he was concerned. Omnic radicals shamelessly exploiting the disappearance of somebody who worked for peace and understanding. The police didn’t care enough as they should, but they weren’t in the business of murdering Omnics.

But now the neighborhood was a powder keg on the verge of exploding. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

_Please, Oliver. May you somehow find your way back here, to safety. For the sake of all of us._

Mulgrew lived in fear of the day they eventually found him. Not only because he would finally have to accept the death of his dear friend, but because he knew that would be the day everything would finally fall apart.

Too many people on too many sides wanted things to collapse. And there was only so much that kindness and charity and Mondatta and prayers for mercy and reason could do to stop it. And that was nothing.

—

Crowds started to gather outside of the Center. Nikolai fluttered about, handing out candles to groups of people, huddled together in an attempt to block out the wind. Omnics and humans met, hugged, and caught up with one another. It looked like a normal rally. But Father Mulgrew knew something dark bubbled under the surface.

There was the widespread belief that somebody who lived in the neighborhood had been responsible for Oliver Black’s disappearance. It felt too targeted. Who else would have known who he was?

At a meeting last week, Father Mulgrew had tried to remind attendees that they had no motive for the disappearance. There was no indication that Black had been targeted because of his affiliation with the Center.

He didn’t believe that argument, either.

He opened his bible and began to locate the verse he wished to reference for his sermon. He found it and ran his fingers along the lettering, reflecting on its meaning.

A woman approached him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, Father.”

Amélie. Worry clouded her eyes. She was a good woman.

“Thank you for coming, Amélie. It means a lot for the community to see someone of your stature here, fighting for what is good in the world.”

“It is the least I can do.” She pressed a warm mug into his hands, and muttered sheepishly. “You seemed cold. I thought perhaps you would like some tea and honey to see you through your service.”

He smiled. “How kind of you.”

Amélie gave him a gentle smile in return and took a candle. “I look forward to your sermon.”

* * *

 

Widowmaker took her place in the crowd. In the shadows, just on the periphery of the gathering, people passed out pamphlets.

Yes, this was a meeting for hope and reconciliation, but anyone in attendance would have seen the flyers. Would have been made to confront the idea that perhaps prayer and kindness were no longer the answer.

The neighborhood had turned into a tinderbox, and she was the kindling. She lit the candle and stared at the flame, bringing it closer to her face.

Father Mulgrew began his sermon. Things were falling into place.

A smile tugged at her lips.

 _Pity Oliver Black_.

The crowd began to sing hymns.

* * *

 

Lena made her way through the crowd that had gathered. Flickering candles lit up the dreary evening. She was interested in one in particular. It bathed the pale face of the woman holding it in a warm glow, flickering light reflected in her golden eyes. She held it close to her face, a slender hand protecting it from the wind.

Those eyes darted in Lena’s direction. Graceful lips curled up into the faintest hint of a smile. Lena walked toward the woman.

“How nice of you to make the vigil, Lena.”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“Good girl.”

Lena hated how she said that last part.

_But say it again anyway._

With one hand, Amélie reached in her pocket and pulled out a small key. She pressed the key into Lena’s hand, fingers lingering just long enough to cause the smaller girl to blush.

Lena turned around on her heel and made her way back into the crowd. She felt the woman’s stare on her back as she slunk away.

—

She broke away from the crowd and moved through the alleys surrounding the center. She took her time – walked around for a few minutes to ensure that anyone who had seen her had since forgotten she was there. And then she silently made her way to the back of the building and unlocked the door with the key Amélie had given her.

For a place that was constantly under threat, there wasn’t much security. Just a simple locked door. No sign of any sort of camera or alarm system. Papers were scattered about the office in various states of disorganization. They looked to be mostly ledgers and plans for various fundraisers, not of any interest to Lena. On one side of her was the room where they repaired Omnics. She wasn’t interested in the part, either.

Instead, she made her way to Father Mulgrew’s office. It wasn’t even locked. _What a good man_ , Lena thought sadly. So trusting, even when he had no reason to be.

She moved into his office, careful not to make any noise. Nobody had stayed around in the building during the vigil, but she still had to make sure not to attract any attention.

The room was dark in the London dusk. She didn’t dare turn on the light, lest she be noticed. So she waited a few seconds to let her eyes adjust to the dimness of the room.

On the far side of the room was the safe. She whispered the combination Amélie had told her.

How did Amélie _know_ the combination? Surely Father Mulgrew wouldn’t have told her, even if she _was_ a member of the board. Right?

 _Six-Three-Five-One-Nine_. _Click._

* * *

 

Hymns echoed through the streets. The tiny square in front of the Center for Omnic Aid was awash in the light of the vigil candles. Father Mulgrew stood in awe in the center of it all – he had hoped for twenty people to attend, yet here they were, in their hundreds. Perhaps there was hope yet.

The chorus of music died down and he turned a page in his gloved hands. Ah, and here was the part of the sermon he was most proud of. He took a sip of tea and flashed a hopeful smile to Amélie, standing in the front row of the crowd. Certainly this display of unity and kindness had something to do with her generous support. She smiled back.

Charisma, warmth, and emotion did not come easily to the Father. But on this evening, something moved within him. “I am not normally a man for sentimental words. But I am nearly in tears at the crowd here today. It is in these moments, when we are awash in darkness, that we are called upon to bring the light we bear.”

Amélie still smiled at him. What a blessing her arrival had been.

He continued his sermon. “Justice is what happens in the aggregate. When all of us, together, fight against the forces that seek to tear us apart. Oliver Black is not here today. We pray he returns to us unharmed. But…”

He took a breath, hoping to emphasize the final, closing point of his sermon. But the breath wouldn’t come. It was as if the air had fled his lungs. Father Mulgrew began to feel dizzy. A strange taste filled his mouth. Those in the crowd closest to him began to notice something was amiss.

Something seemed different about Amélie’s smile now.

Mulgrew stumbled, attempting to catch his balance, breath still fleeing from him. A pain ran through his chest. He clutched it, eyes widening. The color leeched out of the world around him, the light of the hundreds of candles surrounding him growing impossibly dim. He collapsed onto his knees and looked up toward the sky.

The crowd was now in a panic, people rushed toward the Father, holding him, shouting for a doctor, an ambulance, shouting for anyone. In the middle of the crowd, surging toward him like the waters of the ocean, stood Amélie, still and unmoving, eyes gleaming madly in the candlelight, gentle smile replaced with a cruel sneer.

And then he understood.


	7. How to Survive

 

Lena shut the door to the Center for Omnic Aid behind her, one hand clutching the folder underneath her coat. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves from the small heist she just pulled off. That’s when she noticed the commotion. The mood of the crowd had turned to panic. Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance.

Amélie rounded the corner and grabbed Lena by the shoulders. “We must go now.”

“What the hell did you–”

A hand covered Lena’s mouth. “We must go now.”

The Widowmaker yanked at her sleeve, leading her swiftly down alleyways and narrow streets until they reached an unlit lot where a black car was waiting for them.

“Get in.”

Lena shivered at the order and climbed in the back seat. Amélie followed her, signaling to the driver wordlessly. The car began to move.

“Give me the folder.”

 _Fuck. She hadn’t remembered to take a picture to send to Jack._ Lena took the folder out from her jacket and handed it over.

Amélie opened it and crossed her legs, casually thumbing through the folder’s contents for a few moments. She placed her other hand over Lena’s, almost absentmindedly – though Lena was certain the move was entirely calculated – tracing her thumb in circles over the back of Lena’s hand. Lena swallowed. She willed herself to stay still.

“Good.” Widowmaker shut the folder and placed it beside her.

“So do you think you’re going to tell me what the hell was going on when we left?”

“The Father died of a heart attack. A pity.”

Lena’s eyes widened. _She killed him._ And Lena had been there. And Lena hadn’t stopped it. And here she was, in the car, holding hands with Father Mulgrew’s murderer and for whatever godforsaken reason she didn’t have the decency to _stop_.

“Why would you…”

No, she couldn’t break her cover. Lena stopped herself, but found herself searching the other woman’s face for answers. The answers didn’t come.

The car came to a stop.

* * *

 

Fareeha pushed her way through what remained of the vigil’s crowd. She saw a woman standing near the police tape, frozen in shock, weeping as her candle burnt down into its holder.

The police had roped off the area where Father Mulgrew lay, dead. Snow began to fall on the ground, coating the Father’s jacket in a thin layer of white. The coroner was already there. She knelt over Father Mulgrew’s body and pulled a sheet over his head.

“What do we think it was, Tess?” Fareeha adopted the most commanding tone she could. She needed to be taken seriously: She _knew_ what this was, and she needed them to listen.

“You know as well as I do, Fareeha, that it’s too early to–”

“Just give me a guess,” she snapped. “I don’t have to tell you that with tensions the way they are, it would be helpful to have something preliminary to release to the public.”

The coroner sighed. The two of them never got along. Tess Saunders was methodical, leery of making calls before she had all the relevant information. Fareeha supposed that’s why she had become a doctor rather than a cop. But there were times that called for some sort of urgency, and this was certainly one of them. “From what I can tell, Sergeant Amari, it seems like he had a heart attack. Natural causes.”

“What a convenient time to have a mysterious heart attack, Dr. Saunders.”

“Look, Fareeha: I know you’re insistent upon seeing conspiracy every where you look, but it really–”

“Conspiracy? Saunders, what the hell _else_ do you think is happening around here? People are disappearing, and they’re all connected. Threats against local activists have been on the rise, and now this happens? At a vigil for someone who _mysteriously disappeared?_ ”

Tess motioned for her crew to take Father Mulgrew away, removed the latex gloves from her hands, and stood up. “I don’t know what to tell you. This seems natural. Sometimes bad things happen for no reason. Sometimes bad things happen at _suspicious times_ for no reason. And we have to deal with the fallout. I’m sorry.”

“Just give me the report when it’s official.”

The coroner and her crew left, taking Father Mulgrew’s body with them. Fareeha stood alone at the scene, watching the snow falling down onto the asphalt beneath her. The dry spot where he had been slowly filled with white, evidence of his presence there fading away.

* * *

 

_How long had it been?_

The car dropped them off in front of Lena’s apartment building. Amélie watched her unbuckle her seatbelt. The girl hadn’t said a word the entire trip. She didn’t make eye contact when she whispered a brief goodbye.

Amélie unbuckled her seatbelt and looked at the driver through the rearview mirror. “This is the end of the journey. Leave us now.”

She was already rushing toward the door, but the sound of Amélie’s footsteps alerted Lena to her existence. The girl turned around, eyes pleading, her soft reply nearly carried away by the gust of wind that blew between them. “What?”

“Take me inside.”

_When she was sixteen, Amélie Guillard, ballet prodigy, disappeared. On purpose._

_“_ Take me inside, Lena.”

Here was Lena, standing before her, shaking and angry and furious and terrified. _Sweet girl, this is simply the beginning._

_Every moment of her childhood had been spent in service to ballet. Amélie Guillard had never been in control of her own life. And that was why she left it. At least living on the streets, her life was her own. She lived like that for three years. Life only got harder._

Amélie stepped into Lena’s apartment, appraising it. Dreary. Dusty. No decorations anywhere. An empty bottle of whiskey on the bed stand. It looked like the springs were about to poke out of the fabric of her mattress. The floorboards groaned under the weight of their feet. The girl stood in the middle of the barren living room, anxiously running her hands through her hair.

_Three years later, Talon found Amélie Guillard, desperate, and offered her a way out. She accepted._

Lena was rambling now, nearly hyperventilating. “I just don’t understand what I’ve gotten myself into and you’re standing right _here_ and you killed him, you killed him and for what reason? I don’t even know but I…I… _was a part of it_ …and he was a man who only wanted to do _good_ for this world, so what for? What purpose could you possibly have for–”

_She fled her childhood, her home, in order to choose her future. But from Talon, Amélie learned that there was no such thing. Every person plays a role in advancing history toward its inevitable conclusion. They do not control their fate. And that is how Widowmaker left Amélie Guillard behind forever. That is how she learned to survive._

Amélie grabbed Lena by the shoulders and pushed her against the wall, pinning her there by her wrists. The girl was a shaking, sobbing mess. To know this girl would be to watch the world that consumed Amélie Guillard do the same thing to Lena Rowley, to see the spirit drain out of her, one job at a time. And the thought of it caused that ache to rise within Amélie again. The girl looked back at her, half defiance and half despair.

“You must accept, Lena, who you are in Talon. And that is someone who does what must be done. And you do not ask why. And do you know _why_ you do not ask why?”

“Because I’m here to follow orders, not question them.”

Amélie leaned in closer. “No. It is because the questioning will drive you insane,” She hissed, baring her teeth. “You do not ask why because that is how you _survive_.”

She watched Lena, the girl was all fury and fear and innocence and it had been a long time since Amélie had wanted to use the word beautiful to describe anyone, but yes, Lena Rowley was beautiful and standing on the precipice of something so hideous. And what did it mean to survive? Like Amélie had done? Eventually, Talon would destroy every beautiful thing that lit up this girl’s face, sap every ounce of spirit that made her brown eyes so lovely. And Amélie knew at once that she never wanted it to happen, but that it had to happen, or else the girl would die.

You do not leave Talon alive. And the sight before her was fleeting and frail and for the first time in so long Amélie couldn’t bear the thought of something changing, of losing something she didn’t even have but wanted so badly.

Amélie rest a hand on the back of the girl’s head and pulled her closer, other arm on the small of her back. The girl shuddered against Amélie’s touch. The tenderness didn’t come easily to Amélie. It had been a long time.

_You cannot think about it. You cannot question it. You must accept that it is what you must do. You must kill the part of yourself that resists your purpose in this world. And to do that, you must kill the person you love the most. And so she did. And that is how, ten years ago and four years after joining Talon, Amélie Guillard became the Widowmaker._

She could feel the heat of the girl’s face against hers, Lena’s uneven breath rushing across her lips. Deep brown eyes watched Amélie through eyelashes wet with tears.

Amélie kissed her. Lena’s lips trembled against hers. To feel the girl’s torrent of emotions against her skin, oh, Amélie knew finally and painfully how much more alive Lena was than she, and she didn’t want to let her go. She wanted more. In this feeble kiss was a trace of something that the Widowmaker had lost so, so long ago. Lena relaxed into her grip and kissed back, tugging gently at Amélie’s lower lip, clutching the fabric of her dress. And Amélie wished she could say the girl’s soft lips broke through the emptiness, lit a fire within her, awoke a passion and a sense life.

But of course not, she noted bitterly, tightening her grip on the girl’s hair and deepening the kiss. No, only that ache arose within her, the ache of knowing something was about to be lost to her, a hunger that would never be satisfied but drove her to need _more_. And she needed this, she needed the girl in her arms, she needed her to stay, to remind her that once upon a time, Amélie Lacroix knew what it was like to feel alive.

She pulled away from the girl, breathless, full of ache and anger and _want_ and emptiness, and whispered. “This is how you survive."

* * *

 

Amélie let go of Lena, and she slid down against the wall, falling to the floor, knees curled up against her forehead. Lena ran a thumb over her lips, where Amélie’s had been just before.

She gazed up at the woman standing above her. Whatever tenderness had illuminated her pale face had now gone. “I will call you tomorrow,” she said, “There is more work that must be done.”

Lena listened to the sound of the door closing behind her, to the woman’s heels clicking down the hallway, fading out, fading _away from her_. “Why didn’t you stay?”

And that was when Lena’s mind tore itself apart. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she bit her arm to stifle a sob. Talon. Overwatch. Amélie. Father Mulgrew. Mondatta. The _fucking insanity_ of it all. The woman’s lips were so soft, so gentle, and–

Nearly dying in that firefight. Killing those two men, God, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of the gun in her hands as she shot them and the sound of the woman’s screams echoed through her mind and her heart began to race and she began to breathe faster and Amélie, who was she, this woman who killed without a second thought had kissed her and Lena had kissed her back and–

 _Something was there._ There was something more to her than cruelty. Here was a woman, as terrified and perhaps even more lost than Lena. Here was a woman who could be gentle and who could be redeemed and–

More than anything, Lena wanted to justify that she hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her, that she hadn’t wanted her to leave, so she could spend so many more moments in her arms, that she was already longing for the hour that she would return, and–

_This is how you survive._

There was no _why._

––––

Lena sat like that for hours – curled up, staring at the wall until her mouth ran dry. The tiny apartment suddenly felt too large. It grew cavernous and menacing, low ceilings rising taller in her mind, casting imaginary shadows that swallowed her small frame. It became the size of the rift within her, widening with each moment.

Mondatta and Amélie. Overwatch and Talon. Lena, trapped in the middle.

 _The records._ Thought Lena. She blinked.

 _The records._ Came the thought again. She was still frozen, curled up on the floor against the wall.

 _You have to tell Overwatch. You have to move, you have to tell Overwatch._ _You have to tell them about Mondatta_.

That last thought sent her into action, heartbeat quickening. She grabbed the phone and began typing out a message to Morrison.

_Relocate Mondatta immediately. They know where the safe house is._

Lena sent the message and stared down at the phone, waiting for a response. She thought about calling Jack – but that would be too much of a risk. The Widowmaker had been to her apartment. She’d seen enough of the woman in action not to trust that she hadn’t been able to secretly plant some sort of bug, even with Lena in the room.

Morrison replied. _Got it. How’d you find this out?_

_They had me steal it from the Center for Omnic Aid. One of them killed Father Mulgrew._

Lena didn’t tell him who.

It was several minutes before Morrison responded. _Thanks. Keep me updated about any more movements against Mondatta. Try to get closer to their leadership._

_That’s it? This seems serious, Jack. You’re not gonna look into Father Mulgrew?_

_I’ll look into it. Keep getting closer to them. Don’t break cover._

* * *

 

He opened the door to the Center for Omnic Aid. It was a mess.

Nikolai hovered in the corner, electronic eyes dimmer than he remembered. Papers were scattered everywhere; everything was in complete disarray. The omnic was never very good at keeping it together when things were going well. Now that they weren’t, the poor fool was an incapable wreck. The door to Father Mulgrew’s office was closed. A crooked sign hung from it: “Do not enter.”

Nikolai clacked away at his keyboard, muttering. “Oh no, that won’t do…start over, start over.”

“Nikolai,” called the visitor, softly.

No response. The omnic kept clicking away, talking to himself semi-coherent fragments.

“Nikolai.” Louder this time.

He paused and looked up, then let out an electronic gasp. “Oliver?”

“You…wouldn’t believe the month I’ve had, Nikolai.”


	8. Return

It was almost 10:00 a.m. and Fareeha was still waking up. She hadn’t been very good at sleeping in the week since Father Mulgrew’s death, and it was starting to catch up to her. She poured herself another cup of coffee and grimaced as she drank it down, still boiling hot. The coffee at the police headquarters was absolute shit, but it served a purpose.

The rest of the squad thought she was mad. Staying late every night. Coming in early every morning. Father Mulgrew died of natural causes. There were no leads _because there was no crime._ Fareeha would not discover anything in news reports, in intercepted Talon communications, or by rereading old case files _because there was nothing to discover._

Coffee finished, she crushed the styrofoam cup in her hand and threw it in the trash.

That was when the phone at her waist buzzed. Probably her commanding officer telling her to lay off the Mulgrew case and work on something important, like the robbery a few nights ago.

It _was_ her commanding officer. But he wasn’t telling her to back off the case.

_Amari. Oliver Black is alive._

_—_

The man stared back at Fareeha from the other side of the desk in what had once been Father Mulgrew’s office. He was a trembling, miserable thing – sleepless eyes framed by a pallid, thin face.

Fareeha slowly pulled the notepad from her shirt pocket, not breaking eye contact with the man in front of her. He adjusted his sleeves, hands trembling.

She cleared her throat. “So you’re telling me, Mr. Black, that you have _no recollection_ of the past few weeks?”

Oliver Black shifted in his seat and ran his hands through messy hair. “I’m so sorry. I don’t. I remember being knocked out, and that’s all.”

“Mr. Black, you’ll have to forgive me for being suspicious, but–”

“No, I understand. I just don’t remember anything. Not anything that could help.” His eyes were wide, pleading. Red. Something terrible had happened to this man. And Fareeha understood just as much as anyone that sometimes, when pushed to its absolute limit, the brain simply stops remembering. 

“Tell me what you do remember.”

“I remember being knocked out and dragged somewhere.” Oliver paused, gripping his hair, knuckles turning white. He grimaced. “I woke up in a room. There was a bright light in my face – I couldn’t see who they were. And that’s where I can’t really–” He was breathing harder now, on the verge of a panic attack.

“I know this is hard to talk about, Mr. Black, but if you can…”

“I just remember pain. And confusion. And being so afraid. And thinking I was going to die there, wherever _there_ was. But then they just…dropped me off at home one day.”

“Did they say anything to you when they let you go?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Fareeha leaned back, examining the man. He looked like an absolute wreck. A photo of Father Mulgrew sat on the desk in front of him. He would occasionally look at it. She could see the heartbreak in his eyes whenever he did.

“He was such a good man, Sergeant,” said Oliver. “To come back, after everything, and find out that he had died…” He trailed off. 

A broken man.

“Do you think they killed him? The people who took you?”

Oliver Black buried his head in his hands and began weeping.

She knew she shouldn’t have pursued that line of questioning. He obviously was in no condition to answer her questions. Fareeha sighed and leaned forward, sliding a card across the desk.

“If you need anything, or remember anything that would be helpful about your case – contact me immediately. I know you are tired, but I would like for you to undergo a medical and psychiatric exam at the Police Headquarters tomorrow. We just want to make sure you’re safe.”

He nodded weakly and grabbed the card. “I can be there tomorrow.”

* * *

Eventually the police sergeant left, taking her questions with her. He hoped she didn’t see the beads of sweat forming on his brow as he talked, the quiver in his lip that gave away when he was lying. Those were his tells.

The picture of Father Mulgrew stared back at him. _I hope you would at least understand. Even if you wouldn’t forgive me._

The phone on the desk rang. He knew who it was. Now he was drenched with sweat, heart pounding. He fought off a wave of nausea and wrapped a sweaty palm around the receiver. “Oliver Black, Center for Omnic Aid.”

The cold, velvety voice of the woman greeted him. “You did well not to reveal anything important to them, Oliver.”

Of course she had the office bugged.

“You will go to the medical exam tomorrow,” she continued. “They will find nothing wrong. And you will return to work. And do you remember our little project? The one you promised to help me with as part of our bargain?”

It was hardly a bargain. Either he did what she wanted, or he died. “Yes.”

“Good man, Mr. Black. I will be in touch soon.”

Oliver gently lowered the phone back to the receiver.

Father Mulgrew’s photo still stared back at him. He tipped it over with one finger, photo facing down toward the desk, so he didn’t have to look at him anymore. 

* * *

Dawn peeked through the dirty windows in Lena’s living room, stretching its golden rays over her face. She opened her eyes, head resting on the hardwood floor where Amélie had left her the night before. She spread her hands out in front of her, counting the ridges and splinters in the wood beneath her.

And then her phone rang. Lena answered immediately.

“Bonjour, chérie.”

“You actually called.” 

“I said I would.”

“Umm…thanks, then.” 

The woman chuckled softly. _Bloody hell, Oxton, glad to see that despite everything you still have no fucking game._

_“_ I need you to guard a door. Meet me at the location I send to you.”

Lena blinked – it sounded simple, sane. “That’s it? Just guarding a door? Sounds easy enough.”

“Sweet girl,” Amélie’s voice had lost its warmth. “I told you not to ask any questions.”

—

There was nothing special about the building Lena was asked to guard. A simple brick building, three stories high. One door in. Nobody paid much mind to it. It wasn’t clear that the building was much in use at all. A sign hung from the front of it advertising a nail salon, but it appeared to be out of business. Perhaps the rest was occupied by apartment buildings or offices, but Lena had been waiting for an hour and nobody had come in or out.

_Click, click, click._

The steady sound of heeled footsteps against cobblestone caught her attention. There she was. Lena’s breath caught in her throat.

Amélie approached Lena, elegant as always, a black guitar case in one hand. Amusement lit up her eyes. “Your cheeks are red. Surely it is not so cold?”

Lena’s mouth went dry. She clutched at her shirt nervously. “S’bit cold y’know, still winter and all and I’ve been standing here for the past—”

Amélie’s lips caught hers. She ran a hand along Lena’s cheek as she kissed her, then pulled away, smirk playing on her lips. “You feel quite warm to me, chérie. It must be something else, no?”

Lena could only sputter incoherently in response.

Amélie grinned before sliding back into her usual cold, businesslike tone. How in the bloody world could she do that so easily when Lena was a bumbling mess every time the woman was within five feet of her? “And have you seen anyone arrive or leave?”

“No. Place might as well be abandoned.”

“Good. This should be easy, then.”

Lena’s eyes made their way to the guitar case in Amélie’s hand.

“So are you here to go busking, then? Not really the best place for it, I imagine.”

Amélie seemed to find no humor in Lena’s joke. “No. Please wait here.” She pressed a communications device into Lena’s palm. “Notify me if someone arrives.”

* * *

Widowmaker made her way to the roof of the building, where she opened the guitar case and began assembling her rifle. Talon’s council had given her the mission the day before.

For his carelessness, and because he was no longer an effective connection to the Vishkar corporation, Sanjay Korpal had been voted off the council. A death sentence.

Of course Sanjay was not present for the vote. He was holed up in the ‘safe’ apartment that Talon had arranged for him after the incident with Satya. But if he had any sense at all…well, he should have some idea of what was coming.

Which was why Amélie needed Lena to guard the door in order ensure that he had not arranged for countermeasures.

Her rifle clicked into place. She lowered to the ground, resting on her stomach, and peered through the scope. Three stories up, two windows from the left and… _there he was_.

Curtains open, lights on, standing with his back to the window and talking on the phone.

She let out a disappointed click. This would be too easy. _What a stupid, stupid man._ Widowmaker looked up and peered through a lens on her visor, scanning her surroundings to ensure no one was around. None of the sensors showed anything. She pulled the trigger.

The window shattered. Sanjay Korpal was dead.

* * *

How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Guarding a door might have been lower stress than her previous jobs, but standing still in one location and paying attention to nothing in particular wasn’t exactly Lena’s strong suit. She rocked back and forward on her heels, trying to let out the nervous energy building within her.

“I guess boredom is better than insanity,” she whispered under her breath, “or dying.”

A police car turned the corner, a block away. It drove closer. _Probably just passing through_ , she thought.

Then two more rounded the corner after it, then three after that.

Six police cars.

“Fuck.”

_BANG_.

A single gunshot echoed through the air. Time seemed to pause. One second, two seconds, and then…

Sirens blaring, lights lit up like a fucking disco.

_“_ Fuck!”

Lena drew her gun and began firing at the tires of the cars, hoping to disable them. Two of the cars swerved madly, screeching to a halt. Police ran toward her, guns drawn.

_What the hell was she doing? Firing at police—_

_Don’t ask questions._

Amélie’s voice crackled through the comms device. “Come to me. Now.”

Lena forced the door open and ran upstairs. Footsteps and shouts echoed behind her. She fired couple of warning shots behind her. _Please don’t hit anyone, please, please just stop following me._

There was an end table on the landing of the second floor. Lena grabbed it and threw it down the stairs. Shouts and swearing rang out beneath her. With the extra time it bought her, she sprinted toward the roof.

Amélie waited for her by the entrance of the door. The woman planted two devices by the door and yanked Lena away from it. “Hold on to me, Lena.”

Lena obliged, stumbling into the woman and grasping at her shoulders. Amélie had a rifle strapped to her back, another device in her hand. The guitar case lay empty on the other side of the roof. Several more devices glowed within it.

Footsteps thundered closer to them.

Amélie wrapped an arm around Lena’s waist. “Hold on tighter.” A grappling hook shot from the device in her hand toward the building next to them, yanking the two of them up toward the roof of the taller building. Lena lost her grip on Amélie at the very last moment, rolling onto the roof below with a thud, scraping her arms in the process.

“Now run.”

She got up. Amélie kicked down the door and they raced down the stairs of the building.

Amélie looked back at Lena and led her down a hallway. “There is a back door.”

They made their way to the door. Lena moved to open it but Amélie pulled her back roughly.

“Not yet. Three…two…”

The roar was deafening. Floors and brick rattled, drywall from the ceiling rained down on them. Lena’s eyes widened, she yanked madly at Amélie’s shirt.

“You…you blew up the bloody—”

“Now, we run.”

* * *

The figure on the roof. Long, black ponytail running down her back. Oh yes, she was familiar. Bitterly, painfully so. There was someone else with her that Fareeha didn’t recognize. Shorter, short brown hair. She made a note of the other woman.

Fareeha looked down at the radio at her shoulder and pressed the button. “Widow.”

An officer in the building responded back. “Shit. Noted.”

When she looked up, the Widowmaker was gone. Fareeha cursed herself for taking her eyes off the woman for even a second. “I lost sight of her. Please be careful.”

Fareeha saw the flame ripple through the building in front of her before she heard the explosion. She flew to the ground, crouching behind the police car, arm raised to shield her face from the debris and the heat.

And then silence. She spoke into the radio on her shoulder. “In the building, please respond.”

No response.

The wind blew against her cheek. Cold this time. Now, it was the only sound. Just the wind and Fareeha, both howling in disbelief. Of all the police on the scene, she was the one who stayed behind on the ground.

_God. Fucking. Dammit._

She slammed a fist against the side of the police car.

“God. Fucking. Dammit!”

—

Sergeant Amari made her way through the motions. She answered the questions needed to pass the psychiatric evaluation they inevitably did after any major incident. She told the internal investigators what she knew.

No, she couldn’t be taken out of duty. Not now.

It was _her._ Everything that was going on. Father Mulgrew. The disappearance of Oliver Black. The firefight at the warehouse. Satya Vaswani. Sanjay Korpal.

No, there were two many coincidences for it not to be _her._ Widowmaker was up to something big. Something dangerous.

But the police department wouldn’t take it seriously. The coroner’s report, when it was released, would officially declare that Father Mulgrew had died of natural causes. Vaswani and Korpal? Talon, for certain, but that was the end of the story. Internal gang conflict.

Fareeha laughed bitterly. How stupid, stupid, stupid.

She wanted nothing more than to throw everything within the immediate vicinity of her violently to the floor, including the Commander, her goddamn coworkers who wouldn’t leave her well enough alone, and whoever the hell drank the last of the coffee and hadn’t bothered to brew a new pot. 

Of course they would keep her on desk duty for a few days. Standard procedure. Fareeha would just use that time researching. She would play along with the protocol – she needed them to believe she was well enough to keep working. And she was, she told herself. She was dedicated, and most importantly, she was _right._

There were four drawers in her desk. Three of the drawers held work files, office supplies, the usual. But the fourth had a lock on it. Sergeant Amari grabbed the keychain from her belt and opened the drawer.

It held a single folder. Notes from the investigation Fareeha had been secretly working, dedicating precious free moments to it when she could, building a case, pulling together countless threads and strings over the course of years. No, she couldn’t stop. Not now.

She thumbed through the pages of the file, scanning their contents. Two photographs were paper clipped to the back of the folder.

The first one, an older woman—tan, white hair framing her face. A gaze that looked as if she was staring far beyond the photographer, lost in thought. Ana Amari. Fareeha’s mother.

The second photograph was a man in his police uniform, smiling proudly.

Gérard Lacroix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time since an update, I know! It's been busy on my end with a move across the country and starting a new job.


	9. Rubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has a change of plans.

Overwatch’s entrance exam had an essay section. Lena hated essay sections, and this one was no less tedious than most: “Why do you want to join Overwatch?”

But the answer had come naturally to her. “As long as there is injustice or pain,” she wrote, “we are obligated to seek its end. As sentient beings, we must commit to doing good for others and opposing those who wish to inflict harm.” Simple, but indisputable.

Lena wanted so badly to go back to simple.

Her knees trembled as she followed Amélie down their escape path. As she ran, debris and dust from the explosion fell from her hair, her arms. Sirens echoed from every direction, but the woman in front of her always knew which way to turn in order to avoid detection.

Each step took her further and further away from simple.

* * *

Widowmaker called in a transport to a safe house for the girl. She would wait there until Talon could confirm that there were no police officers searching around her apartment.

Lena’s eyes were glassy. She didn’t react when Amélie gave her the news. There was a cut on her forehead, still seeping blood.

“Do you understand the instructions?” Amélie asked a third time. 

Lena’s face contorted, as if conjuring a response to the question required some great feat of strength. “Why?”

Amélie laughed bitterly to herself. _Why? You frail, stupid, lovely thing._ It almost made her angry, to hear that question. She learned it was a useless one to ask so many years ago. So what made Lena think she had any right to ask it?

“Look around you, Lena. When will you realize that there will never be an answer to that question? You must learn to stop caring about any answer.”

The girl’s eyes stayed transfixed on her. And Amélie wished then that she could answer this idiotic question for this foolish girl who chose, for no discernible reason, to enter into a world where reason didn't matter. 

That wasn’t exactly true. Of course there was a reason for it all. But suddenly it didn’t feel very compelling.

She raised a thumb to the girl’s lips, brushing them gently. They were chapped and trembling. Her face was still coated in a thin layer of dust.

Any tenderness she afforded Lena would only hurt her in the long run. Gentleness was not a mercy in Talon. She would not survive by being weak. With an ache that she desperately wish she didn’t feel, Amélie tore her hand away from the girl’s face. She forced any warmth from her expression.

“The car behind you will take you to the safe house. I will alert you when you may return to your home.”

She turned on her heel and walked out, not waiting to see the girl leave.

_There is no answer for you, Lena. But I will make one._

_––_

Oliver Black was a pathetic, trembling wreck. She reminded herself that he looked not so different from Lena, hours before.

But she had no sympathy for him. She could not afford to. Unlike Lena, he was a means, not an end. Widowmaker tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk while he read the sheet in front of him for what must have been the eighth time, quivering lips silently mouthing out the words on the page.

“My dear Oliver,” she cooed, “I thought I had been relatively gentle during your interrogation. Don’t tell me that during the process you somehow lost the ability to read _._ ”

“I’m sorry, it’s just I don’t see how it is going to make sense for me to hold a press conference. We’re not a huge nonprofit and hardly anyone outside London has–”

“I planned on your idiocy in advance, Oliver,” she snapped. “That’s why the pretext for the conference is on the paper in front of you. Now please commit this statement to memory so I may burn the transcript.”

He nodded and exhaled. A long, slow breath. It was almost as if he intended to irritate her with every second he delayed. “Will you also be there?”

“On camera? Goodness, no. But I will be watching.”

* * *

The television in the break room was an old, dusty, flickering thing. When budget discussions rolled around every year, there was always talk about replacing it with a device that was actually from the modern era. But every year, for whatever bureaucratic reason or another, it managed to survive replacement.

The squad would always joke about giving the old thing a medal for its service. How old must it have been? Twenty years? Longer than most sentients gave the department, that much was certain. 

Fareeha had grown used to it. Every morning she would walk into the break room, make herself some toast, and eat a quick breakfast while catching whatever she could of the morning news programs. The routine was usually relaxing, but the explosion had been the main topic of conversation the entire week. She almost skipped the updates that morning – she didn’t need the reminder.

So it was an especially unpleasant surprise when Fareeha turned on the TV to see that the news had just cut to a press conference outside the Center for Omnic Aid. 

Oliver Black stood at a makeshift podium, somehow looking even more disheveled than when Fareeha had interviewed him. A round, older-model Omnic hovered beside him.

What in the hell was going on? She could feel her blood pressure rising by the second. Why hadn’t the police been told of this stunt in advance?

The thin, nervous man attempted to start with a joke. _“_ I promise this isn’t a ploy to ask for more donations.”

_You’re going to need a lot more than donations once I figure out what you’re up to, Oliver._

The remark evoked a tepid round of laughter from the gathering crowd of journalists and onlookers. “For well over a decade, the Center for Omnic Aid has been bridge of trust and understanding between Omnics and Humans. And it is in this spirit that I make this statement today.”

Was it possible for an Omnic to look nervous? The little orb next to him seemed jittery, almost disoriented. The television flickered and Fareeha groaned through a mouthful of toast, hitting its side to restore the picture. 

The image came back online as Black continued. “As we are all aware, there was an explosion in London several days ago. Three police officers were killed, and three more wounded. We now believe this explosion was also connected to the murder of a London resident. And as of yesterday evening, we have encountered evidence to indicate that this murder was carried out by a rogue, malfunctioning Omnic. We have been in contact with the London Police regarding this–”

Fareeha almost dropped her toast. “The fuck you have been!” What evidence could they possibly have that it was some Omnic? She had been there. She had seen the explosion. She had heard the gunshot. And she had seen _her,_ she was certain.

“–and in response, we are launching a pilot program to repair any Omnics who may be malfunctioning in this regard. We want to encourage Omnics to safely seek services with us. We want to reiterate to the public that Omnics are peaceful and entitled to the same rights and protections as Humans, and that we as a community must not tolerate attacks or violence against–”

“What the flying fuck, Oliver?” She turned the television off and rubbed her temples. It was all she could do not to throw the piece of junk out the window. Fareeha didn’t give a shit about whatever bloody software update they were announcing. Why the hell would they interfere with a police investigation?

“What’s all the shouting for, then? Watching a football match on the job, Amari?” Sergeant David Cunningham, her least favorite squad mate, slunk into the room. She had always found him annoying. He was a short, wiry man who always seemed to have a smug gleam in his eye. An idiot who managed to stumble his way up the career ladder. Amari wished she could push him off an actual ladder.

“No, Cunningham, it’s not a goddamn football match.”

“Cricket, then?”

She slammed the door in his face.

* * *

The safe house was a shabby cottage in the middle of nowhere. Lena wondered how long it had been since anyone else had stepped foot in the building, much less lived there. It certainly smelled like it had been a while.

She had just woken up but already felt tired. Lena collapsed down onto an old couch in the living room, kicking up part of the film of dust that coated it. It reminded her of the explosion, the plaster falling from the ceiling above her. Sometimes she thought she could still hear it, echoing in the background, over and over. Sometimes it sounded miles away, sometimes it sounded like she was right there again.

Lena swallowed thickly and looked down at the phone in her hand. _Call Jack, already. What the bloody hell are you doing?_

And so she went on a walk. Down the country lane leading from the safe house. She grabbed a cup of coffee from the cafe on the corner. She pulled her jacket closer to her as she drank the liquid down, scanning the area around her to make sure no one was following her. Then she walked down the lane and turned into a small park by the side of the road.

Ironic, wasn’t it? Turning the Widowmaker in so close to the safe house she had arranged for Lena. The thought hurt. She didn’t want it to hurt. She wanted this to be easy. She wanted to go home. She wanted to feel normal. 

She wanted Amélie to at least text or call or – no, she didn’t. The woman blew up a building and Lena couldn’t close her eyes without seeing it, without hearing it, and–

Who had she become?

It didn’t matter if sometimes, for the most fleeting of moments, it seemed that Amélie could be redeemed. Those moments where Lena searched the other woman’s face and it looked as if something that had long been missing fluttered back into the other woman and gave her life again, and–

There was good, and there was evil. Lena could not name a single part of Amélie that could be considered as embodying the former. Anything else she saw in the other woman was simply projection, the need to justify her feelings for the woman, the need to justify her _failings._

She hit the call button.

“This is Tracer.”

* * *

Lena called while Jack was watching the press conference. And he knew they were about to stumble upon something big. The girl was rambling; he had to ask her to slow down several times.

“So she blew up the building?”

“Yes. I was there, Jack.”

“And assassinated Sanjay Korpal?”

“Yes.”

“And killed Father Mulgrew?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have any sense of why that would all be? She’s keeping you in the dark about the broader plan?”

“Yes. I mean what am I supposed to know? I’m just an initiate. I’m basically her errand girl. She’s not going to just tell me–”

“Are you watching the press conference on the news right now?”

“The press—what? You know I don’t bloody watch the news.”

“The new director for the Center for Omnic Aid is saying that the explosion was caused by Omnics. And that they’ve been working with the police. And everything you’ve told me sure does make it sound like he’s some sort of Talon plant, doesn’t it?”

He could hear Lena exhale other end of the line. “Oh my god.”

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Let me think, kid.”

“About what?”

She was right, of course. They could call it in. At the very least, stop whatever this scheme was. But what would that accomplish? Maybe Talon would be delayed, but Lena only had enough to confidently arrest one person – this Widowmaker character. And from Lena’s reports, she didn’t seem like the type to cooperate with an investigation. 

But Lena was on the verge of something. Talon was up to something big, and Jack needed someone on the inside watching it happen. He needed to take down _all_ of Talon. Not just Widowmaker. He wanted every single bastard in there. 

No, if they struck now, they would hit at the branch – not the root. And then Talon would retreat and shift and morph, as it always did, and become closed to him once more.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. Thanks for the report. But I want you to stay in and focus on moving up. You’re right – we have enough to take down your boss. That’s not enough. Our new goal is to take the entire operation down. You good for that, kid?”

A pause. “Yeah. I guess so. Yeah, I am. But I thought this whole thing was just about protecting Mondatta.”

“It was never just about Mondatta. Not for me.”

* * *

Inspector Khalil was on the phone when Sergeant Amari stormed into his office. She was beyond the point of caring about pleasantries. Amari shut the door behind her and glowered at him as he finished his call.

As far as bosses went, Khalil was more than fine. He certainly put up with a lot of Amari’s worst impulses. He was a bit too attached to his goofy mustache, which made it hard for her to take him completely seriously. But he cared about his team. And Fareeha had to admit that there were a number of times when he had talked her out of doing something especially reckless.

“I’ll call you back later this afternoon, if that’s alright.” Inspector Khalil hung up the phone and shifted his gaze to Fareeha, sighing. “So you saw the press conference, then.”

Fareeha narrowed her eyes at Khalil. “What the hell is going on? You knew about this conference? You didn’t tell me? Have you even been reading my reports? How many coincidences do there have to be for you to finally admit that something weird is going on?”

“Fareeha. In the past week I have lost three detectives. I may lose more before the week is over. And while both you and the department psychiatrists assure me that you are mentally and physically well, I am also worried that I may lose _you.”_

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s exactly the problem, Sergeant. You’re putting too much into this. Especially when there are no clear leads. And the last thing I need right now is one of the brightest detectives in my department burning out.”

“With all due respect, Inspector, what clearer lead do you need? Father Mulgrew was murdered. His mysteriously kidnapped employee returns and takes over for him. Then a building explodes and he suddenly has evidence that it’s Omnics, and not Talon?”

“We need to investigate all possibilities. It could very well be that Talon interfered with an Omnic’s programming to–”

She walked closer and leaned over his desk, lowering her voice. “I saw her, Khalil. Right before Vishkar was shot.”

“We sent a team to follow Oliver Black’s lead. It’s a _good_ lead, Sergeant. We have an Omnic connected to the crime who is being taken into custody now.”

“And you didn’t tell me this?”

“As far as I am concerned, this team is like my family. _You_ are like my family. And I want you to be safe. And that means when I see you going down a rabbit hole, I have to pull you out of it. I know you want to keep working. But I also know you saw half of your squad go up in a ball of fire. Right after your informant was assassinated. I think we can both agree you are not ready to lead this case right now. So we need a compromise. I won’t put you on leave, but I will put you on a new case.”

She slumped her shoulders and fell into the chair by his desk. He was right, of course. He was always right about these things, and Fareeha resented it. Just one time she wanted him to let her do the irresponsible thing. To push too hard. To ignore the paperwork and the bureaucrats and the regulations and let her do what she did best. To shed any pretense of caution and wade into the darkness. He would never let her.

Khalil slid a folder toward her. “I’ll brief you on the details now, if you want.”


	10. Questioning

Lena stumbled into the bathroom and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She stared at her face in the mirror. She looked tired. Not just-woke-up-tired. A more permanent kind of exhaustion. She opened the medicine cabinet and began brushing her teeth.

What day was it?

April 5th.

_Oh god, had it been that long?_

The promise of only two weeks in Talon had turned into months. Her toothbrush hung out of her mouth as she read through old messages in her encrypted comms app, for the millionth time. She hadn’t heard from Jack in weeks.

She spat out her toothpaste and leaned against the bathroom counter. On that morning, like countless others that preceded it, she decided to put off checking in with Morrison for one more day.

London was getting weird. It had always been kind of weird. But now it was the scary kind of weird. Omnics and humans got into fights more often. There were more protests. Sometimes there were riots.

The darkness creeping through the city started with Father Mulgrew’s death, but it was bigger than that. It was getting worse, more widespread. Of course, if she had to guess, she would guess that Amélie was behind it.

It had been months, and she didn’t have any more details than when she started. Lena needed to get closer to the Widowmaker. And the woman was so good at pulling her in so close and then shutting her out completely.

She had to remind herself of the fact that she was frustrated because she wasn’t making progress on the case, not because Amélie was emotionally unavailable. Of course she was emotionally unavailable – she was a deadly assassin.

Amélie would call her, ask her to come over. The other woman would pour herself a glass of wine and wrap her arms around Lena, would allow herself to express some semblance of human emotion. On those nights, it almost felt normal. Lena could imagine that it was what love–no, she didn’t want to use that word–felt like when the Amélie would smile at Lena, laugh with her, run her fingers through her hair, press soft lips against hers. The flicker of a candle reflected in the other woman’s eyes, in the glass of wine perched playfully between her fingers.

For a few delicate hours, she could pretend. And then, like clockwork, Amélie would push her away. She would give her the next assignment. Lena would complete the assignment. And it was like that every time.

This week was no different. 

* * *  
  
---  
  
Lena sat in the passenger side of a silver sedan, tapping her hands and foot furiously, peering out through the tinted window at a row of houses across the street.

“Would. You. Stop. It’s distracting.” Reaper gripped the steering wheel, teeth clenched in irritation. Lena could practically hear his molars grinding against each other. His mask was off – they were on a stakeout of course, and a gold plated skull mask drew attention – but he still gave her the creeps. Three feet away from him in a vehicle she couldn’t leave for another several hours was almost more than she could handle. The sedan might as well have been a hearse.

Lena grabbed her thighs with her hands in an attempt to keep still. It only somewhat worked. “Sure thing, pal. Just a bit jittery, you know. Got a lot going on.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Reaper was in a perpetual state of five-o-clock shadow. The kind that made someone look grizzled and mean. She reckoned he kept up the look to achieve exactly that effect. There was a darkness to his deep-set eyes. A scowl appeared to be his default facial expression.

The two of them sat for what felt like ages. Lena looked down at the clock in the dashboard and groaned. It had only been fifteen minutes.

“How long do we gotta keep doing this? There’s not anything we can do? No game we can play? Hey what about I spy or–”

Reaper interrupted her with an irritated growl.

“Not a talker. None of you are big talkers, huh? ”

“No.”

Lena pulled a stick of gum out of her pocket and fiddled with the wrapper. She popped a stick in her mouth and chewed loudly. “I’m not real intimidating, are I?”

“No.”

She crossed her arms and frowned. “Well maybe that’s because it’s just my first few months on the job, you know.”

“Maybe.”

Lena continued, chewing louder. Reaper grunted again but didn’t say anything else. She thought through the small bit of information they let her know about the mission before she took it. Some low-level Talon member that they wanted to keep tabs on. Maybe he was an informant. “So…does Talon make a habit out of staking out their own members’ apartments?”

Reaper eyed her wearily. “No. I told you we’re suspicious about this one.”

“So was the Widowmaker suspicious about me when she scoped out mine?”

A look of confusion crossed the man’s face. His furrowed brow made the scar along his face contort in a rather unappealing way. “She scoped out your apartment?”

“Yeah, real weird, right? And when she came to visit–”

“She was _in_ your apartment?”

Lena felt her face begin to turn red. “Well yes she asked to be let in. I mean no it’s not like that it was just–”

“Not like what?”

“Well nothing you know, and she left afterward anyway and–”

“Left after _what_?”

_Good going, you arse_. Lena stammered idiotically. “Nothing, she asked me some questions and you know how she is all scary and what, wow even thinking about those questions has gotten me all nervous right? Bet she does that to you all the time, huh. Just small talk, just terrifying, uncomfortable, Widowmaker small talk, right?”

Reaper didn’t say anything for several moments. The next words that came out of his mouth sounded stiffer than usual, a feat for a man who intentionally tried to embody the spirit of death. “She’s hard to read. I wouldn’t get too close.”

_Is kissing her too close then?_ “Right. Probably good advice.” Lena looked out the window to hide her still-reddening face from Reaper. “Not really a big deal, I’m sure.”

It was at that moment that two police cars pulled up in front of the door of the apartment building they were watching. A group of uniformed officers got out.

Lena’s mouth dropped. “Say, Reaper, when you were mentioning this guy getting up to some suspicious activity…was getting arrested the kind you had in mind?”

“Shit. No.”

“Well damn. What do we do now?”

The man next to her growled and turned the car engine on. “We let him get arrested. There’s a reason we don’t let low level idiots like him in on too much information. I’ll draw up a report on what he could possibly give them and make sure we have our bases covered.”

“And what about me?”

“You try not to get arrested. And you don’t let Widowmaker back into your apartment again. Bit of personal advice.”

* * *  
  
Two months. She had been taken off the case two months ago. Two months spent pursuing pointless cases – robberies, muggings, minor crimes. Every moment she spent was a moment spent not pursuing Talon. Not pursuing _her_.

The woman who had taken hold of the shadows of every thought, every dream she dreamt for nearly half a decade.

She would not stop looking. In every spare moment, Fareeha pursued leads. Took notes, wrote reports that she kept hidden away in drawers. She was making progress. Slower than she had been, of course, but progress.

It was enough to keep her sane. And with time, it would be enough to catch her.

The radio came in. “We’re escorting him into the building now.” Fareeha pressed the button on her lapel and responded. “Good. Bring him to me. We’re interviewing him under special protocol.”

“Got it.”

—

Sergeant Amari sat upright in the chair across the table from the lowlife that they brought in. He was a heavy-set, muscular man. His beard was a greasy, scraggly mess. Faded scars decorated his face. But most notably, he only had one eye.

They’d picked him up for petty theft. But the information they had on him made it obvious he was part of Talon. So what harm would it be to ask a few extra questions?

Despite the fact that he was handcuffed to the chair, he glowered at Fareeha with a look of defiance. She grinned to herself internally. These were her favorite suspects to question. The ones who thought they were too tough to break.

Fareeha could break anyone. And now that she had a Talon man in front of her, she was going to get all the information she could.

First, start slow. She looked him in the eye. “Mr. Turner, is it?”

He sneered at her. Oh, this would be fun.

“Mr. Turner, I will take this moment to remind you that it is in your best interest to cooperate with the investigation.”

“And if I don’t?” God, his voice sounded like he began smoking in his mother’s womb.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t want to find out the answer to that.”

He laughed.

Fareeha opened his file and leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. “Lovely day this morning, wasn’t it?”

Turner rolled his eyes. Every movement of his face made him even more repulsive. “It was a shit morning and you know it. Bloody freezing.”

Sergeant Amari smiled. “Exactly. And it’ll be the last one you see in your life, with the charges we have you on. What a shame. Unless you cooperate.”

He spat. “Then so be it. I’m not telling you anything, bitch.”

Fareeha turned off the camera recording their conversation.

“No. You’ll be telling me everything.”

* * *  
  
Gregory Turner was not a weak man. He was not afraid of prison. He was not afraid of very much at all. So he wasn’t afraid when London police arrested him.

But now he was.

The woman in front of him hadn’t laid a hand on him during the interrogation. He had expected her to. That would have been preferable.

What she did instead was much, much worse.

With all the bland detachment of someone recounting what they had eaten that day, the detective listed off all the ways she would convince Talon that he was a rat. She noted, with detail, all the strings she would pull, all the rumors she would start, all the secrets she would share.

If she did that, he would be dead the minute he left the police station.

Or, he could tell her what she wanted. Just a simple name.

_Who was there when Father Mulgrew died?_

He didn’t know. But no answer wasn’t good enough. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.

_God, things had gone to absolute shit._ And not even today, either. He’d been a complete laughing stock for months, after he let himself get his ass kicked by that stupid girl in the pub, who now was outperforming everyone in his–

_Wait a minute._

And that was his way out. Two birds with one stone.

“There’s a girl named Lena. She lives near the Rat’s Roost.”

The detective shut the folder in front of her. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Turner. Now, if you will, I have a few follow-up questions.”

* * *  
  
Sergeant Amari was getting closer to the woman who had eluded her for so long. Widowmaker was careful, but she couldn’t protect herself against the idiocy of the rank-and-file members of Talon forever.

The man in the eyepatch had been even easier to break than she imagined. She smiled to herself and filed his folder away in her desk.

Soon. She would have this resolved soon.

And the case that had lurked in the back of her mind for years, leeching the joy out of every other success and accomplishment in Fareeha had made in her career, would be over with.

Maybe she could finally have a decent night’s sleep, then. Maybe she could finally let it go.

3:00 p.m.

When the day ended, she would celebrate with the nicer whiskey.

The door to Fareeha’s office opened. It was David. He always took pleasure in delivering bad news to her. He looked especially pleased this time around – not a good sign. “Inspector Khalil needs to see you immediately. You are to drop everything you are doing and report to him, no questions asked.”

“Fuck.” Fareeha slammed her desk drawer shut and stood up.

“Have you already forgotten what the commander said this morning about keeping our language professional?”

“Shut the fuck up, Cunningham.”

—

Fareeha shut the door behind her.

Usually, Khalil smiled at her when they met. This time, he didn’t. Fareeha was in deep shit.

Several moments passed before he said anything. He cleared his throat. “Gregory Turner’s lawyer showed up. Once he actually became aware that Turner had even been detained.”

“I followed all of the proper–”

He cut her off. “That is a lie and you know it, Amari. _Every single thing_ he told you today is inadmissible. Whatever information you obtained is completely useless, and your methods were absolutely inexcusable. Threats? And the line of questioning you pursued is completely out of bounds – I removed you from the Talon case _months_ ago, I could have your _badge_ removed for continuing to pursue it without the department’s knowledge.”

She didn’t respond.

He clenched his jaw and sighed, tapping a sheet of paper in front of him. “I am putting you on leave, Fareeha. I have asked gently, I have pleaded, I have demanded that you stop pursing this unauthorized pipe dream with Talon. We will find what we need to take them down. But it has to be in a way according to the law. It has to be in a way that is _just_. Or else it will never happen.”

“Inspector, I am so close to stopping something–”

“I don’t care what you think you’re doing. You have set back our investigation months. You have undermined the entire legitimacy of this department.”

He tugged his mustache and sighed, eyes softening. “Just go home Fareeha. Take a month off. You have to let go. This is turning you into someone you are not.”

She met his gaze and crossed her arms. “There’s no urgency about it. They killed Officer Lacroix. They killed _my mother_ –”

“And that is why you can’t be anywhere near the case. You are too close to it. I should never have put you on it in the first place.”

She turned around on her heel and slammed the door shut behind her.

—

When Fareeha became a police cadet, they paired her with Gérard Lacroix. He had been a detective for five years.

She still remembered the first piece of advice he ever gave her. “You will never forget the first body you see. When it happens, take the next week off. One week won’t make a difference – it'll be with you forever.”

They got along well.

She didn’t think much of the advice when she heard it. For the first year, they had put her on desk duty anyway – following up on leads, processing paperwork about interviews.

She saw her first body in April. Gérard was right – the first body was the worst one. Though perhaps for reasons he could never have intended.

Sometimes, even years later, Fareeha would close her eyes and see it.

She could still see the blood pooled on the hardwood floor of the living room.

Of her _childhood living room_.

They got the call before they knew who it was. She went with Gérard to respond – her first crime scene.

And he took her to the apartment building she grew up in. And as they climbed the stairs a horrible feeling crept through Fareeha and somehow she knew, she knew what it was but she didn’t stop Gérard, she didn’t leave because she knew she had to see.

Ana Amari, Fareeha’s mother, lay cold and pale and dead and broken. A bullet hole through her eye. Her mouth open, eyes rolled back into her head.

Sometimes Fareeha had nightmares about seeing her mother there. Her mother’s mouth would grow larger, stretch open until the blackness surrounded Fareeha, until she was falling into the blackness.

Fareeha would wake up, shouting and sweating on those nights. She would claw at her arms, tug at the skin with her nails just to remind herself that she was alive and that now was now and that was years ago, it was nothing, it was just the first body she ever found.

And then every time, after she managed to calm down, drenched in sweat and on the verge of hyperventilation, she would then remember the second body she ever saw. Gérard Lacroix’s.

Fareeha Amari would not stop looking. Not if it threatened her career. Not if it threatened her life. Not until she found her.


	11. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, cashiers, and cabbies.

It was one of those nights. Amélie would call Lena. Lena would come. Every time. She would stand there and watch the girl. Lena never made the first move. Amélie had to ask. Every time.

“Come closer to me.”

Lena obliged. Every time.

And Amélie would search every corner and shadow of her face. She would commit every detail to memory. She would pull Lena tight against her body, take in the smell of the girl’s shampoo, the feeling of her cheek against Amélie’s. And in every one of those moments, she felt something approaching happiness. But in every one of those moments was the echo of every choice she had made, every choice she never had the chance to make.

_But maybe if you laugh loud enough, sigh like that, let me kiss you, maybe that will be enough, just for a moment, to forget._

And when it felt like her heart would burst, like she was approaching something she had kept locked away for years, she would make Lena leave.

And it was like that, for months.

And she didn’t want it to be like that at all. But it was the best she could do.

—

In the days, she would call Lena, too. She would give the girl her next mission. The girl would carry it out. Every time.

Sometimes Amélie was there. Sometimes she wasn’t.

Such a sweet girl, dutifully following Amélie’s every order to cast the city further into unspeakable pain.

_Why are you here? Why do you stay?_

If Amélie was a superstitious woman, she would say it felt like fate. Like retribution. She was not a superstitious woman.

—

The Widowmaker did not have regrets. She did not regret, for example, joining Talon. She did not regret moving up within its ranks, she did not regret taking the lives of so many. She did not regret choosing for herself a life inextricably, inescapably bound to death. The death of strangers, of those close to her, and eventually, her own.

The Widowmaker did not have regrets. Until she met Lena.

And Amélie began to trace every decision she had ever made, follow the contours of their consequences, how they branched off and spun in their own directions and met again, how they intertwined and crashed into one another, how every path she took and choice she made sent her to the place in time where she met this girl, this girl who she would fall in love with.

Yes, Amélie Lacroix was a lot of things, but she was not one to delude herself. She loved Lena. She did not know if Lena loved her. It did not matter.

And fate, or choice, or destiny, whatever it was, led her to Talon. Which led her to Lena.

And those same circumstances ensured that Amélie could never have Lena. So long as they were in Talon, things would only end in pain. Nobody could leave Talon. Not alive. Not happy. Not in love.

And she dreamed and plotted imaginary, grand designs to rescue themselves. Of course, they were impossible. But she drew them anyway. If she could not show love, she would write it in the form of a plan Lena would never see. Stashed away in a drawer, locked and secret, known only to her. She whispered its details to herself before she went to sleep, recited them in the morning, as if forgetting them were akin to losing Lena herself.

* * *

Lena awoke, face buried in the pillows. She eyed the bottle of whiskey on the floor. It certainly hadn’t been empty the night before.

She turned over and raised a hand over her face, shielding her eyes from the sunlight.

_Note to self, get curtains if you’re going to keep drinking like this._

God, she smelled gross. Sweat caked her hair. Her legs trembled as she fought down a wave of nausea and made her way to the shower.

Despite it being a regular part of her hangover routine, Lena hadn’t gotten particularly good at putting up with cold showers. She bit her bottom lip and shivered, arms wrapped tightly to herself as the freezing droplets pummeled her.

_You wouldn’t have to keep doing this if you didn’t keep deciding to go through an entire bottle of whiskey by yourself._

—

Lena’s hair was still a dripping, tangled mess when she walked into the corner store. The only other person in the shop was the old woman running the cash register, eying her suspiciously.

_Oh come on, don’t tell me you haven’t had a bit too much to drink before, you old crone._

She grabbed a couple of cans of coffee from the refrigerator, shuffled over to the medicine aisle, and found a bottle of ibuprofen and hangover tablets. While scanning the back of the boxes, the flower display in the window caught her eye.

Flowers weren’t exactly her thing, but something about the purple and white arrangement reminded her of Amélie.

The old woman at the cash register looked at her purchase and clicked her tongue. “Making an apology for a drunken mistake, are we?”

Lena turned red. “They’re for my girlfriend. Well we’re not really–well I don’t know. You see she’s kind of also my…we make out sometimes. Maybe she wants to be my girlfriend? Say, do you reckon I should just ask–”

The woman’s face was a spot-on impression of a disgusted raisin. “Just pay for your damn things.”

Lena walked out the door of the corner store, flowers in hand, washing down ibuprofen with shitty canned coffee.

Christ, had she really called Amélie her girlfriend back in the store?

_If only._

_You idiot. Think of the day when you will have to turn her in or the day when she will discover who you really area, and then–_

She was starting to remember why she drank so much the night before.

* * *

 There she was, in the doorframe. Hair its usual mess. This time it was still wet. She wore a crumpled up button down and baggy pants that looked like they could use a good wash. In her hands was a vase of flowers.

And there was Widowmaker, truly at a loss for words. She stood in the doorway, blocking the girl’s entrance into her apartment. “Why did you bring me this?”

Lena blinked. “Well sometimes you put your lips where mine are and after that goes on for long enough, it’s only polite to thank a girl for it.”

“You can put them on the table.”

—

Amélie reached forward and ran her fingers through the purple and white petals of the arrangement.

“So do you like them?”

Why was it always the most innocent questions that Amélie couldn’t answer? Maybe _because_ they were the innocent ones. Lena did not know the weight of fourteen years under Talon. Flowers wilt. People die. Amélie had long since run out of people who would think to give her flowers. She had even killed some of them. That was the answer she wanted to tell Lena. That the flowers were like every fleeting thing Talon forced her to let go of, or worse, destroy, and yes, maybe one day that would also mean Lena herself.

“Yes. I like them.”

* * *

Amélie stood by the flowers Lena had bought earlier, staring at them unblinkingly, sipping her wine.

Lena furiously traced the pattern on the couch with fingers to distract herself from the constant, strange tension between them.

God, it would be so much less awkward if Amélie cared to interact with people like a normal human being.

_But then again, that’s exactly why you’re so interested in her, isn’t it?_

She imagined how the night could have gone if she were in the room of any other woman on the planet. _“Yes, what lovely flowers,”_ she might say, _“thank you so much.”_ Instead, Lena looked on as Amélie sipped her wine in silence and slowly plucked the petals off. “You’re killing my present, luv.”

_Why do you ask me over?_

_Why do you ask me to leave?_

_Why is it that you let me near you at all?_

These are the questions Lena knew she shouldn’t ask. But now, she would ask them anyway.

“What am I to you, Amélie?”

Amélie stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut, nails digging into table beneath her. She twisted a petal in between her thumb and forefinger. It contorted violently, ripping in her hand. “It is time for you to go, now.”

But Lena didn’t move. “No.”

“No?” The woman looked up, irritation flashing across her eyes.

“I want an answer.”

“There are questions you do not ask, Lena.”

“I’m asking anyway.” Her breath hitched in her throat, but she forced the words out anyway. She willed her quavering voice to steady itself, willed her eyes not to look away from Amélie.

No response. Lena was losing her patience. A strange sort of courage rose within her, replacing the usual feebleness she felt around the woman who occupied so much of her thoughts. “You don’t have an answer, do you?” She caught the sound of her voice — it sounded angrier than she meant it to. But maybe it was because she _was_ angry. “You’ve spent your entire bloody life running as far away as possible from human emotion, just so you can destroy _other people’s lives_. And now what? When you get within a fucking kilometer of having any genuine feelings about something you just—”

Lena knew she would regret the next words. She said them anyway. “You’re broken. You’ve broken yourself. That doesn’t give you an excuse to break _me._ ”

Time seemed to stop. Something about Amélie softened. The other woman slumped almost imperceptibly, and turned her head to gaze out the window beside her. The silence between them hurt.

“I won’t leave, Amélie. I won’t leave _you._ ”

Lena had just been a child when the Omnic crisis happened – she had no memory of the war. Maybe not having been there is why she had hope. She thought about it a lot: Twenty five years ago, the world was on the verge of collapse. Omnics rose against humans, seeking to wipe them out. They wanted nothing but violence and death. And nobody understood why.

Lena thought of Mondatta. Even the coldest, most calculating beings were capable of love, of gentleness. Now, Omnics sought equality. They were so far from the armies that had nearly torn the world apart those years before.

There was goodness in everyone. In everything. Everyone could be redeemed. So surely, that must be true for the Widowmaker – for Amélie. And Lena believed that more than anything. What greater lesson was there from the Omnic crisis? What greater lesson was there from life itself?

That was how Lena let herself fall for Amélie. She stepped forward, reached out an arm and gently tugged on the woman’s velvet sleeve. Amélie closed her eyes, relaxing slightly, still silent. Was that the glisten of tears on her lashes? Lena let out a sad laugh. “I didn’t think you cried, love.”

Amélie’s lips twitched upward in a sallow smile. Lena’s throat tightened, eyes filling with tears in turn. “If I am in love with you, Amélie, then what’s the use of all this sadness?”

And Amélie kissed her. This time, gentle and kind. The other woman’s sighs sweeter than the taste of the wine on her lips. Every breath against Lena’s cheek told her that Amélie loved her back. When the other woman pulled away, she was trembling and timid and quiet so different from who she was, her normally icy tone melted away into a whisper. “I am so sorry,” she started, “for everything I cannot give you. Tomorrow. Please, come back tomorrow.”

—

Lena shut the door behind her. The April air had turned cold that evening, wind wrapping its delicate fingers around Lena’s body, causing her to shudder. Why couldn’t she love the easy girls? The spend the morning in bed, breakfast at noon girls? The ones who wouldn’t make her leave until mid afternoon, when they’d really love for her to stay but they’ve got a lot of errands to run before work tomorrow and didn’t she too?

Lena opted to take the long way home. There was a particular street she liked on the route, full of old, ivy-covered townhouses with ornate facades. She sat down on a bench across from one of them. Its windows radiated warm, yellow light. Lena tried to imagine the life of whoever lived there.

A couple who went to bed together and woke up together. Who dated once upon a time and said all the right things and did all the right things, and followed whatever mysterious recipe there was for true love and baked themselves a happy little marriage with an elegant home. What safe, bland, mind-numbing monotony. But God, was it appealing.

She rubbed her hands together and looked up at the sky.

When she looked back down again, she saw a woman walking down the same street. Maybe she had also been kicked out of some lover’s apartment, earlier than she had hoped. Lena amused herself with the idea of the two of them sitting together on the bench and having a conversation about it.

The woman drew closer. Lena crooked an eyebrow in confusion. It certainly seemed like the woman was approaching her. It also seemed like she was rather determined about it.

She sat down on the bench next to her. Lena got a quick glance at her. Dark hair and olive skin. An ornate tattoo lined her eye. She could tell the woman was in good shape – she carried herself with a commanding and athletic kind of poise. And she was looking right at Lena.

This was probably a very bad thing.

“Don’t suppose you sitting here is an accident, then.” Lena smiled nervously at the woman beside her.

“No, Lena, it’s not.”

This was _definitely_ a very bad thing.

“How do you know my–”

“You have two options, Lena. You come with me and tell me everything you know. Or–”

“Not really sure what the second option is, luv, but I’ll be taking it anyway.” With one fluid motion, Lena stepped on the woman’s foot and jabbed an elbow into her solar plexus. She whirled away from the woman’s startled attempt to restrain her and began running down the street.

Fuck, she wish she had her chronal accelerator with her. But running like hell would have to do. Lena whirled down an alleyway and looked over her shoulder. The woman turned the corner right after her. Christ, she was fast. Not good, not good, not good.

She darted onto another street, picking up her pace. She could hear the woman’s footsteps grow faster to match her own. She tried to push harder, but every time she increased her speed, the woman behind her matched it. Lena had a lot of energy, but even she had her limits.

Lena looked behind her. The woman was getting closer, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Shit. She’d wound up in a part of London she didn’t recognize. With each turn she made, she risked running into a dead end. So she stayed on the larger streets and hoped that she could simply outlast the other woman. It didn’t seem like that hope was panning out.

Lena turned to look back at the road in front of her. She had just flown through a crosswalk. Without looking.

And a cab ran straight into her. She rolled over the hood and onto the roof before sliding down the side of the vehicle. The car screeched to a halt and the driver stepped out and grabbed her by the shoulders, eyes wide with panic.

“What the fuck, why don’t you look where you’re–are you hurt? Can I get you to a hospital? Jesus, lass why the bloody hell did you–I have to pay for that you know and–but really, are you alright?”

“Listen, I gotta go.” Lena twisted out of his grip and began to run forward, but then she found herself crashing to the ground yet again.

The woman stood over her, pointing a gun at her chest.

The cabbie shouted an incoherent string of terrified expletives before driving away. So much for a trip to the hospital.

“What the _fuck_ , woman?”

“Care to pick option one, now?” Her aim stayed steady. This was clearly not the first time she had done something like this.

“Ok fine, shoot. Wait, no! Not like that. Don’t shoot me. What do you want?”

“You will tell me everything you know about the Widowmaker.”

Lena felt dizzy. Of course that’s what this was about. Amélie was in danger, then. And the thought of something happening to her sent her reeling. No. Nothing could happen to Amélie. She couldn’t let it.

_Then how the hell are you supposed to turn her in when Overwatch requires it?_

Critical seconds ticked away. She needed a plan. The woman above her grew impatient. Her fingers moved toward the trigger of the gun. Now would be a good time to suddenly get good at lying, wouldn’t it?

“Fuck _me_ , fine I’ll tell you what I know. But really, luv, I’m a shy girl and I have a hard time talking to women when I’m nervous. So would you mind putting the gun away?”

The woman above her rolled her eyes and holstered her weapon.

And that was just enough for Lena to make her next move. She leapt off the ground and swiped at the woman’s legs, sending her crashing to the ground. Lena planted a firm kick to the woman’s side and pinned her arm behind her back, grabbing the weapon from her. “Sorry darling, gotta go! Don’t chase after, okay? I’ll call you.”

Lena darted away as fast as she could, clutching the stolen gun in her hand. Now to find a spot to disappear. Two options – turn down another alley and risk running into another dead end, or jump into the pond in the park nearby.

She chose the pond.


	12. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie gets possessive; everyone else gets pissed off.

She was already getting into bed when she heard the knocking. Amélie hated late night visitors. And on this night, of all nights, when she simply wanted to retreat into herself.

And of course, there was no such thing as an accidental visit to her apartment. Even more than late night visitors, she detested late night _Talon_ visitors. The unfortunate fool at the door would regret not leaving her to her silence.

Amélie grabbed a knife to make a point about bothering her after business hours and yanked the door open, too irritated to bother peering through the eyehole first.

It was Lena, to both her delight and dismay. And to her extreme confusion: The girl was sopping wet and covered in mud. She absolutely reeked. Was that algae in her hair? Lena looked down at the knife in her hand and smiled apologetically. “I know you said to come back tomorrow, but was the knife really necessary?”

“There is no possible question I could ask that would begin to feel appropriate for this situation.”

“So we’re on the same page, then. Could I borrow your shower?”

—

“I know you live in squalor, Lena, but I could have sworn you had a bathroom in your apartment.”

“Hey! I resent tha–”

“Answer my question.”

“Was more of an insult than a question,” Lena mumbled, tugging at the edges of the top Amélie had let her borrow. Hopefully she wouldn’t jump into a swamp while wearing it. The girl sat down on the couch. “I’m not really good at delivering bad news.”

Amélie crooked an eyebrow, smile playing on her lips. “If it usually entails showing up to someone’s apartment at one in the morning after traipsing through a sewer, then I would tend to agree.”

“First of all, it was a pond. Second of all, I didn’t really have another option. I had to lose her.”

Amélie paused. “Lose who?”

Nervousness poked through Lena’s put-on bravado. Amélie fought back the urge to take her hand, to still its trembling with a gentle kiss. “This woman who chased me. She wanted information about you.”

“What did she look like?” Amélie pursed her lips, worried that she already knew.

“Dark skin. Maybe Mediterranean. Oh she was actually quite gorgeous, really great body–”

“Silence.”

“You’re a bit too emotionally unavailable to be this jealous, luv.” A joke, but it hurt nonetheless.

“Did she have a tattoo? Around her eye?”

“Yeah! How’d you—”

It couldn’t have been anyone else, of course. And now she knew who Lena was. Amélie cursed herself for her foolishness. For her selfish delusion that pushing Lena away would protect the girl. And what did that accomplish? She was already in danger. She was always in danger. “You must tell me if you ever see her again.”

“Okay. So who is she?”

“An old enemy. You will stay here tonight. You will stay here tomorrow.” _Just stay. You will stay with me._

Amélie grabbed the Lena’s collar, clenching it tightly in her fist, and pulled her closer. _I am a fool, I am a fool and you are perfect_. She wrapped an arm around the smaller woman’s waist, and felt the brush of cold metal against her fingertips. A gun. “You are armed?” The girl’s face was red.

“Oh, I—” The girl stammered, surely less the result of the current line of questioning and more due to the current placement of Amélie’s hands on Lena’s hips. Amélie bit her lip, suppressing a wicked grin, and ran her thumb along her waist. Lena continued babbling. “Sorry, I’ll put it away. It’s not—I took it from the woman.”

Perhaps another member of Talon would have thought to shoot Fareeha with it first. Not Lena. Amélie clicked her tongue and noted with mild irritation that she would have to deal with Amari another day. Though killing the officer herself would be more satisfying. Especially now, that she had threatened Lena.

That thought sent her off the edge. Fareeha, chasing Lena down. Fareeha, hurting Lena. Fareeha, so much as placing a hand on Lena. Amari would die before she could take Lena away from her.

_I am a fool. I am a fool, and you are perfect. And I need you, and I love you, and I will never let you go, and I will destroy anyone who comes near you._

“Thank you for coming back, Chérie.” She pressed her lips against Lena’s neck, planting a trail of kisses up to her jawline. Lena’s breath grew ragged. Amélie needed this. She needed to feel the girl in her arms, to hear the sound of her voice, to feel her tremble and sweat and groan. To remind her that they were both still alive. Amélie ran a hand lower, sliding a finger beneath the waistline of Lena’s pants. “Tonight, I would like to make an apology.”

* * *

 

The ache was probably a cracked rib where the girl had kicked her. Fareeha grimaced as she sat up, clutching her side, unable to sleep yet again. She fumbled around for the bottle of painkillers, and swallowed a few down with the coffee from the mug on her nightstand.

She tried to keep a regular sleep schedule. But sometimes she would wake up, in the middle of the night, eyes wide, heart pounding. It had always been that way, ever since Gérard Lacroix was murdered by his wife.

That wasn’t the official story. It wasn’t a story anyone at the police department wanted to hear about anymore. But Fareeha knew. Amélie seemed to haunt so many unsolved cases, skirting around their edges, just beyond Fareeha’s reach. Amari was never able to make anything stick. She was never able to tie the threads together.

So there she found herself again, hunched over her computer at 2:30 a.m. What would Gérard have thought of her obsessing over a case a decade old? He’d probably tell her to lighten up.

But she liked to think he could relate. Obsessed with a cause most people had already given up on. Before transferring to the London Police, Gérard had been a member of Overwatch. Even as a detective, he served as a liaison between Overwatch and official investigators. He had cared so much about that job, even as the world seemed to give up on Overwatch.

Fareeha, at age thirty two, already felt like an old woman. Beset by a litany of “what-ifs.” Clicking through old photographs of people who had been lost to her. Mourning the passage of time, the upending of life, the loss of memories that were never even made.

What would her life have been like if she had joined Overwatch? Would she have known Gérard, before he joined the police department? To have had more time with her friend. Her heart ached for that never-possibility.

And she found herself clicking through police database of Overwatch members. Looking at their photographs. Imagining their faces. Reviewing their histories. She imagined herself as one of them – unrestricted by bureaucracy. It was a silly thought, of course. Overwatch was disbanded. What justice could they have fought for? What good could Fareeha have done there that she hadn’t already done with the London Police?

She clicked to the next page on the database and froze. Looking back at her was a girl, short hair–smiling broadly in uniform, pilot’s goggles hanging around her neck. Lena.

* * *

 

Reaper pressed a button on his wristband, activating his heat cloaking device. Stalking Omnics was riskier than Humans – they had senses that the living didn’t. It was nearly impossible to be invisible, but if you knew what you were doing, you could get close enough.

He pressed his back against the brick wall and raised his binoculars to get a view of the target across the way from him – Mondatta’s apartment. With the binoculars, he would be able to see past the thin, decaying wall of the old London tenement and into the unit. Then, he would record every possible detail of its layout for a future strike against the Omnic leader.

Despite nearly taking down the entire operation with his idiocy, Sanjay’s connections had proven useful. Vishkar’s technology gave them the edge they needed. They had disposed of him once their continued access to Vishkar technology had been secured.

The door to the apartment unit opened. He smiled grimly. Time to monitor the target’s usual movements.

Except it wasn’t Mondatta. It was a blonde woman. Maybe in her mid twenties.

Reaper looked down at his comms device to ensure he had followed the coordinates correctly. He had. This was Mondatta’s apartment.

The woman was on her cell phone, pulling groceries out of her bag. It certainly seemed like she lived there. A few minutes later, she plopped down on the bed, still talking on the phone.

Attention to detail was never Reaper’s strong suit. If he had paid attention to every room in the house, he would have noticed that the one bedroom in the unit wasn’t exactly decorated to a typical Omnic’s tastes. He scowled, both at her bland floral art, but also at his idiocy, and also at the situation.

Mondatta had been moved. Again. For the fifth time in as many months. Which means someone had tipped him off that his location was insecure. Again.

He cursed and whirled around on his heels, furiously typing the update into his comms device.

_MONDATTA MOVED. OUR INTEL IS BUSTED._

* * *

 

Watching the clock on a Friday afternoon didn’t make the time go by any faster. But sometimes Jack couldn’t help it. He couldn’t focus on all the paperwork so close to the weekend.

He looked up at Winston, dutifully working at the desk on the other side of the office. Maybe if Morrison was also a wonder of biological engineering he’d be more productive on Friday afternoons. “Wanna go to the pub after work tonight, big guy?”

Winston paused and looked up over his glasses. “Sure. Something wrong?”

Morrison sighed and looked out the window. “Nothing more than the usual. Strange times.”

The ape grunted in acknowledgement.

Jack watched the people passing by below him. One of them caught his eye. A tan woman with dark hair, walking with an unusual sort of determination. And it looked like she was coming toward their building. Then he saw the tattoo under her eye.

“Oh, fuck. Winston, Sergeant Amari is here.”

“That’s not a good sign, then, is it?”

“No.” He grunted, grabbing the coat from his desk drawer. “No, it’s not. I need a smoke.”

—

Jack had hoped he would get out of the building before Amari ran into him. No such luck. The knocking came right as he approached the door. The woman stood in front of him, stiff and serious as usual. And this time, angrier than usual. A bit of a feat, really.

“Can I have time to smoke, Amari, or do I need my lawyer for this one?”

“You have five minutes.”

Morrison wasn’t sure whether or not to be relieved or alarmed by her answer. He decided it was concerning — it sounded like she planned to be in the office for a while. He sighed to himself and headed down the hall, lighter in hand. As he moved toward the staircase, he looked up at Angela’s office. _Hell, I better tell her, too._

Morrison walked into the office, careful not to draw Fareeha’s attention to his detour. He blew past the front desk and made his way to the back. Angela stood over some paperwork in the hallway.

“Usually we make appointments, Jack.” Her eyes darted toward his hand. “Put that cigarette away, this is a doctor’s office of all places.”

“I’m going down for a smoke. Then I have a meeting afterward. That maybe you want to be at.”

She clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Your ex-girlfriend is here and she seems pissed. You do anything?”

Angela went a bit pale. “That wasn’t a sentence I wanted to hear on a Friday.”

“See you after my smoke break, Angie.”

—

When Angela entered the Overwatch office, Fareeha was leaning against the front desk, toying with Lena’s nameplate in her hands.

“I take it you’re not here to get back together, then.” Angela shifted her weight uncomfortably.

Fareeha’s eyes flashed. She dropped the name tag on the desk and folded her arms, eyebrows furrowed. “Lena Oxton.” Amari let the name come out slowly, as if she was repeating it only for herself.

“She’s on sabbatical.”

The sergeant laughed sardonically. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

The door flew open. Morrison entered, faint smell of cigarettes trailing in after him. “I was hoping you’d be gone by now,” he grunted.

Sergeant Amari spread her hands out on the desk behind her and took a deep breath. She looked around, inspecting Overwatch’s office. Angela found herself embarrassed, wishing Winston and Jack had managed to keep the place a bit cleaner. Not that she was worried about impressing Fareeha. Of course not.

Fareeha’s voice was distant. “So this is what Overwatch is now? Small. Shabby. Sneaking around in the shadows. Solving two-bit crimes.”

Morrison rolled his eyes. “You getting anywhere with this little speech?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I think about what my life could have been in Overwatch.” Fareeha looked at Angela, sad smile on her lips. “Do you remember how we met, Angela?”

“Yes.” Angela’s mouth went dry. She fixed her gaze somewhere on the wall behind Fareeha. But not on Fareeha. She didn’t really want to start the weekend by staring at her ex-girlfriend, who still looked fantastic. A little disheveled and sleepless, but still fantastic.

She didn’t really want to start the weekend being confronted by her ex-girlfriend either, but here she was. She also didn’t want to spend the weekend realizing she wasn’t exactly over her ex-girlfriend, but here she was again.

“Gérard introduced us at a party. He and I left the office together. On the way, he told me about you.”

Angela could catch Fareeha looking at her out of the corner of her eye. The woman always had a way of demanding someone’s entire attention. Their gazes met.

“He said we’d hit it off. He was right.”

Angela pursed her lips. Perhaps hearing Gérard’s name would never stop being painful. “Why are you here, Fareeha?”

“Do you remember Gérard’s wife? She was at the party. It was the first time I met her, too. Sweet thing. Beautiful. There was a sadness about her. Like she knew what would happen to the man.”

What the hell was she getting at? “What I remember more is that she disappeared.”

Fareeha’s eyes darkened. “And then, Gérard was dead. And we thought, Angie—”

“Call me Angela, please.”

“We thought whoever killed him had killed her. And I looked for them, for years." Of course Angela knew this. Fareeha's obsession with the case, at the detriment to her own health and wellbeing, was what broke them up in the first place. It worried Angela to see that if anything, Fareeha had gotten _more_ fixated on it in the past few years.

The sergeant continued. "But then I saw _her._ And I knew. And I’ve been trying to find her.”

Morrison scoffed. “So I take it you haven’t been dating since you and Angela broke up, then? Pursuing conspiracy theories seems like a full-time hobby for you.”

“Amélie Lacroix is a Talon assassin. They call her the Widowmaker. She murdered Gérard Lacroix. She helped destroy Overwatch. She is alive,” Fareeha hissed, voice dropping to low and sinister depths. “And Lena Oxton is doing her bidding. Now, you both are going to tell me what the hell you’re up to.”

—

Back in Overwatch’s heyday they had called her Mercy. But that hadn’t stopped her from having a temper when she was angry. And right now she wasn’t sure who to be more angry at – Fareeha, for storming in with all sorts of accusations about Overwatch and Lena and her, and for simply reminding Angela that she still existed and was still beautiful––

No, she wasn’t going to go there.

Or Jack, who seemed pretty unapologetic for the fact that he had deliberately hid from Angela that their asset was at the scene of two assassinations and an explosion and had been pursuing a romantic relationship with the woman responsible for all of it.

God, or herself, for even thinking the entire operation was a good idea to begin with.

Fareeha and Morrison had started arguing. They had their similarities. Both so stubborn, so obsessed with getting what they thought was justice.

Fareeha jammed a finger into Jack’s chest, glowering. “And of course you are aware that what you are doing is incredibly, illegal, right? You have no jurisdiction. You told your girl to–”

“She’s not a girl,” Jack growled.

“You told her to commit a crime. To commit a series of crimes. To generally be involved with a group of people who commit crimes. And you’re telling me now that she’s _intimately involved_ with perhaps the worst criminal of all?”

“Fuck it, I’ll get a can of air freshener later.” Jack jammed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, shoving it into his mouth and lighting it. He took a long drag and exhaled, smoke clouding around Fareeha’s face. She didn’t flinch.

If anything, she had gotten more intense with age.

Jack continued. “We sent her to stop an assassination that would destabilize the city. And so far, she’s delivered. We’ve protected their target.”

“And all the other bodies? Not important enough to pursue a conviction for?”

Angela was getting a headache. “That’s enough, Fareeha.” She grabbed the other woman’s shoulders and turned her around. “Now tell me. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

Fareeha winced. Angela had hit a nerve. “They put me on leave.”

Jack scoffed. “You fucking kidding me?

“Enough. Fareeha, you will go home. I will talk to Jack about his handling of the case. You will call us when doing so _actually relates to your job_. Until then, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Fareeha’s eyes smoldered, but she said nothing. Sergeant Amari pushed Angela away and stormed out the door. But Angela could tell she would listen.

Angela took another breath and rubbed her temples. God she was irritable. She snatched the cigarette out of Jack’s mouth and put it out on the floor. “Outside. You only smoke outside.”

“Hey, this isn’t even your office.”

“I don’t care.” Angela slumped down on the chair by Lena’s desk with a groan. “You’re not exactly inspiring my confidence in this operation, Jack. What the _absolute fuck_? And how are we supposed to respond to the accusation that Gérard Lacroix was murdered by his wife?”

He grunted. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react this way.”

“You have an increasingly short amount of time to convince me why I shouldn’t contact Oxton right now and order her back.”

“She’s already saved Mondatta’s life. Multiple times. We’ve relocated him because of information she’s given us. And I trust her more than anyone.”

When Jack believed something, he believed it. And he was loyal. He wasn’t going to change his mind.

“Fine. But I want reports. And you need to be meeting with her more regularly. And if I hear that _anything_ amiss – we’re pulling the plug on this.”

“She’s got it handled, Angie.”

“I hope so, Jack.”

* * *

 

It wasn’t right and he knew it. Reaper scowled to himself and slammed the empty mug of beer on the bar counter. The bartender crooked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing, and went back to sorting the money in the drawer. There was a reason he picked this place – they didn’t ask too many questions.

It was nearing the end of the night. The remaining people in the sad, dingy little dive were either too drunk to move or gathering up their things to stumble home. A group of drunken men said their over-affectionate goodbyes to one another, slurring various semi-coherent platitudes, and stumbled out the door, giggling madly.

Reaper, on the other hand, was perfectly sober. Not that he hadn’t had his fair share of beer. He’d downed six that night, actually. But something about having the ability to dissolve into a cloud of shadows made it quite a bit harder to get a proper buzz going. The bartender looked up at him expectantly. Sober or not, he didn’t really need a seventh beer.

He looked down at his watch. Widow would be arriving soon. And he knew how the conversation was going to go. He had begun mentally preparing himself for whatever smug insults she had for him hours ago.

_God, I wish I was drunk right now_. Gabriel slid another bill to the bartender. “Give me another beer. And a shot.”

——

The woman practically radiated disdain. Another advantage of this particular meeting place, thought Gabriel – it was the type of place that Amélie Lacroix would absolutely loathe. She was perched on the barstool across from him, arms crossed across her body, as if to touch as few surfaces in the place as possible. Her eyes darted in the direction of a stain on the bar, and she crooked a disapproving eyebrow.

“Well it certainly appears this bar is empty for a reason, Reaper. It’s a mere step up from a trash compactor. I take it you did not invite me here to engage in joviality.”

“Can you be an actual human for one second?”

“This does not appear to be a location that was designed with humans in mind.”

He took another swig of beer. He really didn’t need to try for ten drinks in a night, but Widowmaker’s attitude made it oh so tempting. “We’re here because I need to talk to you about Mondatta. The council is going to ask us to move forward on our plans with him soon. Of course, we’re going to lean heavily on your…talents…in that regard. But we have a problem.”

She crossed her legs and looked at him expectantly. “Not from me.”

“Rowley didn’t come home last night.”

Something flashed across the woman’s face. She leaned forward slowly, eyeing him. “So you have nothing better to do than spy on entry-level Talon recruits?”

“Don’t play coy, spider. You know what I’m getting at.”

“I do. And I would like to ask why you’re monitoring the movements of the girl I’m sleeping with.”

Reaper’s mouth curled into a scowl. He slammed the mug of beer onto the bar. The bartender looked up for a moment, but decided against saying anything. “Are you _serious_?” He hissed. “You’re going to be that casual about it?”

Amélie sighed impatiently and looked at her nails. How long had Reaper known her? Years. And yet she still found new and creative ways to irritate the hell out of him.

He had always considered her a friend – and for what reason, really? He had also always known that she saw him as another arrogant Talon lowlife who simply stood in her way. He was furious, of course. But now was not the time to lash out. This meeting was for the good of Talon. And, he had to admit to himself, the good of his sometimes-friend and always-nightmare, Amélie Lacroix.

He took a breath and finally managed to string together a sentence. “Mondatta was moved, Widowmaker. Either the intel you gathered was bad, or it was leaked.”

“And you think Lena leaked it? Why would you withhold this information from me?”

Reaper sighed and shook his head. “No. I don’t. I’m not saying that. But I’m telling you Amélie – you don’t _know_ her. So you need to be careful. She’s not even the type to join Talon—”

“You’re right, Reaper. The type who joins Talon is a washed up brute who gets drunk and brags about the latest person he killed, or worse, gets arrested by the police and tells them everything he knows. Remember? One of your men did _exactly_ that last week.”

He didn’t respond. Amélie looked up, disinterest in her face shifting to a look of piercing interrogation. “We both know this isn’t about Mondatta. So what is it, then?”

Reaper refused to dignify her arrogant question with an answer. “You need to be more careful. We will be moving on Mondatta within a week. You will receive your orders shortly. And you will need to keep on top of anyone leaking information – he’s been moved multiple times. _Someone_ in Talon is letting that information out. We can’t afford for it to happen again.”

“I’ve noted your concerns. Please stop spying on my girlfriend. Are we done?”

“Yeah. We’re done.”

The woman stood up from her perch on the barstool. “Oh, and Reaper? See to it that Gregory Turner is killed. After he was arrested, Fareeha Amari started harassing Lena. We can’t have that now, can we?”


	13. Fire

It was a small glitch — an Omnic street sweeper had stumbled on the sidewalk. But it was enough for the man in the cafe across the street, who eyed the machine with suspicion as he ate his breakfast. Over the last few months, he’d seen what a malfunctioning Omnic could do.

He took another bite of bacon and reached for his phone. As far as he was concerned, any excuse was good enough to get an Omnic into that shop. One glitch was just the beginning. One tiny malfunction led to many more. Cascading and spiraling somewhere amongst metal and wires until one day, one glitch turned into rebellion.

So it was better to be proactive. Anything to keep the bad ones off the street. He dialed the number for the center, still following the street sweeper’s movements.

And five minutes later, the van came and took it away. He sipped his coffee and watched as a group of muscular men directed the robot into the back of a van. The machine looked resigned to its fate. Not perplexed. Not angry. Just resigned. Then they drove away, in the direction of the Center for Omnic Aid.

This was not the first time he had called them. It certainly would not be the last. When he walked to work in the morning, it it comforted him to see malfunctioning Omnics being taken in. The center was doing good work, protecting the neighborhood from the dangerous ones. It kept them safe.

Lena grimaced as the morning sun pried its way under her eyelids. She would never be a morning person.

Amélie chuckled and ran a hand through Lena’s hair. Amélie certainly had an easier time getting up in the morning, though she didn’t particularly seem to be one for sleep in general.

When Lena rest her head on Amélie’s chest, she could hear her heartbeat. It reminded her of the second hand of a ticking clock, counting down toward some indeterminate but inevitable ending.

The other woman traced her thumb along Lena’s palm. “You have to wake up eventually, Chérie.”Amélie smiled down at her and brushed a strand of hair behind Lena’s ear.

“It’s supposed to look that way,” Lena retorted, and ran a hand through her hair, sending it back to its previously disheveled state.

“You’re a mess, then.” Amélie teased. The woman paused for a moment, playing with the hem of Lena’s top. She let out a long sigh. Lena saw her smile fade — still present on her lips, but the happiness had fled from her eyes.

“So are you going to tell me what it is, then?”

Amélie turned, wrapped an arm around Lena’s waist and pressed her lips to her shoulder. “Mondatta is giving a speech today. Talon has asked that we be in attendance.”

—

“Do you understand, Lena? You are to help secure my location.”

Lena could barely hear the instructions over the sound of her heart racing in her ears. She felt nauseous. Her mouth went dry, she struggled to move it to form even the most basic response. She forced herself off of the bed, began dressing, began searching for her pistol. “Yes. I understand. When are we leaving?”

—

She had approximately thirty seconds to tell Overwatch about the plans against Mondatta. Amélie had stepped out of view to ensure their location was secure. She sent the message to Morrison and shoved the comms device in her pocket.

A response came almost immediately, but she didn’t bother to read it. It was no longer up to her. Now it was up to Overwatch. Lena couldn’t bring herself to look at the woman perched on the roof thirty feet away from her, but she could hear the click of a rifle being assembled.

* * *

Angela nearly knocked the phone out of Jack’s hands.

“Jesus, Angie, I was going to show you the—”

She held up a hand to shut him up. The message was from Lena.

_They’re moving to kill Mondatta at the rally today._

They only had half an hour. She looked up at Jack, shaking her head in disbelief. All of this. All of this chaos and madness and worry for only a thirty minute heads up. _Thirty fucking minutes._ “Get the car ready. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Morrison nodded. He grabbed his jacket, his gun, and left.

Before she followed after him, Angela called Fareeha.

* * *

The crowd began to gather below. For the first time in months, Omnics and Humans stood together in the open: A show of unity against division and violence. She winced at the thought — division and violence that _she_ had helped create. _No, it would have happened with or without her. She was trying to stop it._ She dug her nails into her thigh, attempting to distract herself from her own mind. Now was the time to focus. Now was the time that meant everything.

Police set up barricades to block off traffic. Lena sat perched on the ledge of the rooftop, watching for signs of anyone approaching their position. Thirty feet away from her, Amélie peered at the podium through the scope of a rifle.

How many people were there below? Hundreds, at least. Probably well over a thousand. The city was tired. They wanted an end to the escalation. They wanted hope. Mondatta was a reminder that they had a choice — perhaps more important now than ever before. And they wanted to believe in their capacity to stop what was coming.

_And what choice would she make?_

Her gaze shifted over to Amélie, staring down the barrel of a gun. There was a flurry of movement by the podium below. The speech was about to begin. The crowd roared as Mondatta took the stage, his humble demeanor a stark contrast against the chanting, adoring crowd. He approached the microphone and pulled it closer to his face.

Lena scanned the scene for Overwatch. Still no sign of them. Amélie was still waiting, still watching, finger not yet on the trigger.

How long would it take Lena to run over there? How long would it take Amélie to fire? She calculated the distance and edged closer to the other woman. Where the hell was Overwatch? Lena didn’t want to act without any backup. Talon was everywhere. Stopping it now would mean her death.

Mondatta began speaking. “Human. Machine. We are all one within the Iris.”

The crowd began to cheer. At that moment, a bodyguard — impossibly large — stepped to the side of Mondatta, obscuring Amélie’s shot. The other woman swore under her breath. Lena had to stop herself from letting out a sigh of relief. Below them, the Omnic leader continued, obscured by the bodyguards assembling on either side of him. “Before me I see a future. Humans and Omnics standing together. United by compassion, by common hopes and dreams.”

It was at that moment that Lena saw a shock of white hair below. Jack made his way through the crowd, moving toward the podium. She moved closer to Amélie, praying the bodyguards kept their position.

Where were Mercy and Winston? As she looked for more signs of backup, the door to the roof opened.

And her heart nearly stopped. It was the woman from before. The one who had chased her. Footsteps masked by the roar of the crowd, she pulled a gun from her waist. But this time, she wasn’t pointing it at Lena. The woman raised a finger to her lips, signaling for Lena to stay silent.

Lena’s eyes grew wide with realization. If she could trust Lena not to act, then she knew who Lena was. But who was _she_?

The woman cocked her pistol.

And everything was falling apart. Lena had tried. Lena had tried to delay the inevitable, hateful choice that she would have to make. No matter what she chose, it would tear her apart, every outcome meant destruction. Every outcome meant despair. And the worst part, the part that she could never forgive herself for, was that the right choice was so obvious. And still, she couldn’t bring herself to make it.

 _Why not? Why not? Why the fuck not, Oxton?_ She questioned herself angrily. She was unable to provide an answer.

Lena looked down. Jack had made his way to the podium. He was attempting to signal danger to the bodyguards, but they misunderstood — as he tried to climb on stage, the men rushed toward him, hands on their weapons, thinking he was a threat.

 _No, no, no, Jack you stupid, shortsighted man, you’ve given her an open shot—_

Where Lena couldn’t act, the woman with the pistol absolutely could. Gun aimed straight for Amélie, she began to pull the trigger.

And that was when Lena made her choice. She tackled the woman to the ground. The shot missed, bullet ricocheting against brick, inches away from Amélie—

Who didn’t even flinch before pulling the trigger, piercing Mondatta through his skull. His lights dimmed, faded, sputtered and blinked out. He collapsed to the ground.

The crowd went silent. Beneath Lena, the woman’s face contorted with rage. She dropped the gun from her hand. Lena grabbed it and threw it as hard as she could off the roof of the building.

Time slowed. Blood rushed to Lena’s head. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. Ticking down. Ticking toward the end.

And then the crowd erupted with an ungodly wail. Shouts and screams from below. Sobbing. The roar of a city that lost its last hope. The noise hit Lena like an artillery shell. She wavered, made weak by the realization of the choice she had made. Something had broken within her. Still pinning the the woman to the ground, a rattling, broken wail escaped Lena’s mouth. Something had ripped itself from her spirit, something had split in two, something had shattered. There she was, presented with two choices: the right choice, the wrong choice. And she chose the wrong one, willfully, without a second thought.

Lena Oxton was no hero. Lena Oxton stood for nothing.

A fist hit the side of her head, then her ribcage. The taller woman leapt up, kneeing her in the stomach. She rolled over on the ground, clutching her side.

The woman had barely gotten her balance before Amélie slammed her against the wall of the stairwell. Amélie’s voice dripped acidic hate. “Fareeha, how disappointing. You were such good friends with my _last_ lover. Why not now?”

Fareeha spat.

 _Last lover?_ Lena stumbled toward them, arm outstretched. Amélie tightened her grip on Fareeha. “Lena. You will go now. I want you safe. I have this under control.”

“But I—” Lena stammered.

“Go!”

Lena ran.

* * *

 She should have done away with her back then, too. Like she had Ana. Like she had Gérard. But she hadn’t taken Fareeha seriously enough. Or perhaps part of it was that she enjoyed toying with the woman. To will her own agony onto someone else.

Fareeha twisted in Amélie’s grasp, breaking free. She grabbed Amélie’s shoulders and pushed her forward, landing a kick to her side. It sent Amélie reeling.

It had been a while since she had been in a real fight. She grinned coldly at the woman before her. Fareeha rushed forward, but Amélie ducked out of the way at the last minute. She whirled around, still off balance from the blow she took, and shot a kick toward Fareeha’s back. It landed with a crunch, causing her to stumble.

Amari hissed and whirled around clumsily, fists raised to her face. Amélie used the delay to take a step back, calculating the distance between herself and the rifle she had foolishly left on the ground in her charge to protect Lena.

Amari approached, narrowing her gaze at Amélie. “Do you know how long, Amélie? How _long_ I have been trailing after you?”

“Of course I know.”

“And the worst part was that no one believed me. I watched as the police closed the murder investigations into Gérard and my _own mother.”_

“Pity, that.”

The woman swung toward her, seething rage. Amélie dodged, making sure to step closer to the rifle resting on the edge of the building behind her. Fareeha saw it too, surely gambling she would be able to throw her off the ledge first.

“Your Talon handlers talk a big game about how cold and unfeeling Omnics supposedly are. But look at you, Amélie. Pretending to love a man just so you could murder him. He had given you his whole heart. And I am picking up the pieces. It's  _you_ who should be destroyed, not them.”

Amélie chuckled coldly. “Is that how you see it?” For all the years Fareeha had spent trailing her, obsessing over her, there was so much she didn’t understand. It wasn’t about Omnics, or whatever Talon's end goal was. Amélie had no idea what broader designs the council had for the world. She didn’t care. How sad that was for Amari, who had spent so many years imagining her to be at the crux of some grand conspiracy. The answer was simply that Amélie Lacroix did everything in order to survive, in order to feel alive, in order to forget.

But like Amélie, she had no other choice.

Amélie took another step back. She looked behind her. The rifle was in her reach now, if she dared risk turning around to grab it.

Fareeha laughed bitterly. “Want to try it? This is the end.”

Amélie reached for the gun. Fareeha lunged for her, grim finality flashing through her eyes. But she predicted Amari’s move and stepped aside, away from the rifle. Fareeha didn’t have time to recalculate her position. With one fluid motion, Amélie grabbed her by the collar and slammed her to the ground. She picked up the rifle, hitting Fareeha in the stomach with the gun stock and then whirling it around, aiming straight at her chest.

Amélie’s finger hovered above the trigger. “I never pretended to love Gérard.”

* * *

 Gérard ran a thumb along her cheek and smiled. Amélie looked away, blushing. She had a habit of doing that. He thought it was because she was shy. The truth was that his smile hurt her.

Because she loved him, but it was all a lie.

“What’s all this, Amélie?” He chuckled. “You are anything but a wallflower. Why do you act like one?”

She met his gaze again and smiled back, forcing herself to focus on the moment. 

“The dress looks perfect. You’ll be the star of the party. And speaking of flowers, I got you this.” He pinned a white lily brooch onto the right strap of her wine-red dress. What would it have been, to rest at ease, to grow old with him, to wake up to the sound of his voice every day in perpetuity.

Instead, it was Gabriel’s voice that entered her thoughts. She had a mission to do, of course.

_Get as much information as you can. You’re going to a policeman’s ball — and Overwatch will be there. That’s practically the jackpot, Amélie._

She shut her eyes and gently ran a finger along the brooch on her dress.

—

It was impressive how much information she could get polite company to divulge. Especially after a glass or three of champagne. Gérard would tell her where they worked, what their names were, what their jobs were. She would ask polite questions. _Oh, that sounds so interesting. What cases are you working on now?_

And then, of course, there were Gérard’s old friends from Overwatch. “ _The grand prize,”_ she could hear Reaper whisper greedily.

Gérard, charming as ever, extended an arm toward Ana Amari herself. The older woman smiled. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Amélie blushed. “What could there be to tell?”

“Well, you’ll have to take that up with your husband.” Polite laughter.

Next to Ana stood a young woman around Amélie’s age. Side by side, it was clear they were related. Gérard cleared his throat. “And in the department of it’s a small world after all—this is my colleague at the London Police. Fareeha Amari. Ana’s daughter.”

Amélie extended a delicate hand in the woman’s direction. She didn’t accept the offer. Fareehahad a deeply intense gaze — as if was sizing Amélie up. What was Fareeha looking for? Could she see through it all—the facade, the lie, the lies within lies?

If she did see something, she didn’t say. Her response was cordial, rehearsed. “A pleasure, Amélie.”

—

Gabriel was her first handler. In the recent months, she could sense that he was growing frustrated with her. They met in an alley in an industrial district. Grime seemed to cake every surface. Talon seemed to be drawn to the aesthetic, she noted with distate.

She didn’t hate him. But she had no fondness toward him either. He, after all, was not the one who made the decisions. He was only the one who told her about them. The one who made sure things got done.

He eyed her up and down. “You’re going to have to start getting more comfortable with alleys.”

In recent months, she had gotten better at ignoring his little jabs. “I lived on the streets for three years. Unlike you, I have no desire to reenact that time in my life.”

Gabriel scowled. “Here’s the hit. Your report from that party a few months ago ended up being useful. We’re moving against Overwatch.” He handed her a folder. Paperclipped to the inside cover was a picture of the target — Ana Amari.

—

Gérard Lacroix believed he was married to a ballet school teacher. He thought it was curious how hesitant she was to talk about her job. Work stays at work, she would always tell him. Every day, he would ask her how her day went. Amélie would roll her eyes and smile. “You know I don’t like to talk about work.”

“I’ve got more to say about work, and I’m a homicide detective.”

Then she would laugh, and kiss him. Because if she didn’t, she would cry.

And on the day he came home and did not want to talk, Amélie knew why. By then, he certainly would have learned of Ana Amari’s death.

Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, holding his head in his arms. Amélie rubbed his back and pulled him closer, saying nothing, feeling everything, desperately trying to crush every painful emotion that wound its way through her chest.

Eventually he told her about it. On sleepless nights, he would wake up shaking, muttering.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t let it go. We have no leads. We have no answers. We have nothing.”

A month later, he came home with the tape. A security camera from the apartment complex. Amélie thought she had disabled all of them. She missed one. He said he couldn’t bear to bring himself to watch it at work. So he sat down on the couch and played it.

And replayed it. And replayed it again. For what felt like hours.

And at last, he looked up from the screen, eyes full of hurt and confusion and heartbreak, and _love, she could still see it, still love, still so much fucking love._ His gaze met hers, then met the barrel of the gun pointed at him.

Tears streamed down her face. Her voice wavered madly, but her words had horrific, absolute finality. “Just know, Gérard, that I love you. I always did. And that was not a lie. And this was not my choice. And I have no other choice.”

And she pulled the trigger.

* * *

 She pulled the trigger. It hit where she intended.

Amélie Lacroix hissed in pain, clutching where the bullet grazed her hand. The shot forced the rifle from her arms.

Fareeha had been right. About everything, really. Angela was wrong. She’d been wrong a few days ago. She’d been wrong years before.

But for all Fareeha had been right about, she still didn’t have the good sense not to follow a lead down into the pits of hell. That’s where Angela came in. She fixed her aim on Amélie.

The woman’s tone of voice was eerily calm, given the situation. So different from the timid, sweet girl from years before. _And what have those years done to you, Amélie?_ What had they done to all of them?  “Talon is surrounding this building. If you take me, _we all_ will die.

Angela was not in the business of making foolish sacrifices, a trait which seemed to be increasingly rare. “A deal, then. Give us cover to leave, and you live.”

The woman laughed. “And what makes you think I have something to live for?”

“Fareeha tells me you have one very specific reason to live.”

Ah, that broke the facade now, didn’t it? Angela continued. “You should go pay that reason a visit, then.”

Amélie Lacroix took a step back from Amari. She pulled up a comms device and spoke into it. “My location is clear. Divert attention elsewhere.” As she spoke, her eyes locked onto Angela’s, upper lip curled in disdain. And then she fled.

Fareeha screamed and moved to stop her, but Angela caught her first. She grabbed Fareeha’s shoulders, holding her back as Amélie fled. Fareeha’s shouts faded to quiet sobs. Angela held her there, until the crowd below calmed and scattered. Until Fareeha was silent. Until the only sound was a distant siren and the wind that blew around them, as hollow and bitter and lonely as they were.


	14. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena revisits the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death warning for this chapter (Not Amélie or Lena, but still major.) 
> 
> Also, this one may sting more than the last chapter. Sorry!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, despite the grimness and unhappiness of this particular story. I’m estimating about two more chapters after this one before it becomes wraps up. Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed.

Lena ran. The world around her crumbled away into unreality. In the streets, crowds gathered and surged and ebbed and dissembled. They protested, rioted, clashed, dispersed. London was struck by a furious energy it didn’t know how to get rid of. It was in mourning, it was abuzz with anger.

The comms device buzzed in her pocket. Jack was trying to reach her. Lena turned into a side alley to read his message. She held the device in her palm, throat tightening as she looked down at it. Just three words: _Where are you?_

What the hell would she tell him? What the hell _could_ she tell him? She let out a violent wail and threw the device against the nearest wall. It came apart, chips and plastic scattering across asphalt.

There was no turning back. Mondatta was dead. She had let him die. _She had let her hero die._

Lena collapsed to the ground and held her head in her hands, tugging at her hair. She closed her eyes and pulled her knees up to her chest. She stayed like that, thrum of the city on edge lulling her into a trance.

The sound of footsteps approaching brought her back to reality. How long had she been sitting like that? She decided not to move – maybe whoever it was would ignore her.

A hand grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up. Lena’s eyes shot open – Reaper. His mask was off. His eyes burned hot hatred. He smiled, each bared tooth a gleaming, sinister threat.

“Mondatta won’t be the only one dying today.”

She froze, eyes wide. He knew. _Talon_ knew. And almost certainly, _Amélie knew._ The air escaped her chest at that last thought. After everything, she had let Mondatta die in order not to lose Amélie. And now it would happen anyway.

There was good and there was evil. Lena had betrayed both.

She sputtered, mouth going dry. “I don’t know what you–”

“Enough!” He threw her forward and she stumbled backward, colliding with the wall behind her. Rough brick dug into her skin. She winced. Reaper walked closer. Hands trembling, Lena reached for the gun at her waist.

Reaper dissolved into shadow with a hiss and reappeared on top of her. He yanked the gun from Lena’s hand and grabbed her neck. “Now, now – we don’t want to alert the authorities with gunshots, do we? Any more than you’ve alerted the authorities already, that is.”

She choked, struggling against his grip. Reaper laughed coldly and continued. “I saw an old friend at the speech today. Do you know a Jack Morrison? Funny, he’s not usually the rally-going type.”

Lena went still. She could feel the color draining from her face. He knew Jack. He _saw_ Jack.

“I’m a bit disappointed by how easy this was, Lena.”

She moved suddenly, lashing out as fast as she could. Legs flailing, she shifted her weight forward and kicked him in the ribs. It was sloppy, but it gave her just enough space to twist out of his grasp. Reaper lurched forward, hand still on her neck, but his grip loosened. She slammed an elbow down on his arm and grabbed it, bending it backward. He let go of her neck and she jerked forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest. Still gasping for air, Lena stumbled, whirling madly on one foot, and threw Reaper aside. He wavered, but did not fall. Reaper moved into position, blocking her only exit to the street.

_Christ, Lena, you were never particularly aware of your surroundings, were you?_ She looked behind her. A pipe ran up a wall, and she bolted toward it. She started climbing, straining to pull herself upwards, rust catching under her fingernails, still aching from the hits she had taken earlier. Reaper followed, grabbing at her ankles. Lena tried to pull herself up to the roof, but the man’s grip was firmly around her legs. His weight pulled down on her ankle and she hissed in pain. No other options left, Lena let go.

They both fell to the ground. Lena landed on top of Reaper. She leapt upwards, and Reaper lunged after her, screaming, grasping wildly, trying to find anything to pull her back down to the ground.

And then he reached for the pendant. Fingers gripped around the chain on Lena’s neck and pulled, breaking it. _Fuck. No, no, no!_ Lena reached for the gem on the end of her necklace as it swung away from her, sliding off of the chain. It fell toward the ground and she dove after it.

Reaper’s boot pressed against her back. The gem skittered away from her as it hit the ground, stopping just beyond her reach.

Her heart raced. _No, no, no. Not now._

Reaper laughed. “It’s just a goddamned piece of jewelry.”

_If only._

And then she began to feel the splintering. Lena grimaced, trying force herself to remain in the present. She looked at her arm, stretched out helplessly toward the fragile piece of jewelry that kept her anchored to reality. The tips of her fingers started to flicker gently. She didn’t have much time.

“What the hell?” Reaper growled and pressed the boot down harder, as if doing so would keep her from vanishing.

But in her mind, the tethers began to break. One part of her consciousness remained in the alley, keenly aware of the boot planted on her back, of the man moments away from ending her life. And the other was buffeted about, jerked and yanked through time and space. She flickered between worlds. The lives of other people flashed before her eyes, random memories from time and place unknown.

_No, no, no, not again._

_—_

Overwatch recruited Lena as a test pilot. They had designed an experimental aircraft that could jump through time – the Slipstream.

It was the day of its first test flight. Generations of effort had brought her team to this moment. Winston stood next to Lena and handed her the helmet. She beamed at him, flashing him a quick thumbs up. He grinned back. “Ready to make some waves?”

She nodded. Of course they knew it was risky. They didn’t talk about that part. “See you in fifteen minutes, once I get back from last century.”

Winston laughed and gave her a jovial salute. Lena climbed into the cockpit. She had been in it before, but the significance of this moment overtook her. She marveled at the shining machinery in front of her–gears, gages, countless buttons. Lena Oxton, a tiny girl from London who barely knew up from down, was about to change the course of human history.

She let out a breath of air and pressed the button on her shoulder, opening up radio communication with ground control. “Bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Try not to think about that,” Angela’s voice came in over the radio, even-keeled and soothing. “We’ll be monitoring your vital statistics. Move into launch position.”

The plane taxied down the runway toward the designated location. She looked up at the control tower on the other end of the airfield, where Winston and Angela were observing the test.

“I’m in launch position. Just give me the signal.”

Winston’s voice crackled over the radio. “You’re good to go. Begin launch procedures.”

“Roger.” Lena began the procedure. As the jet engines hummed to life, she noticed a strange aura form around her peripheral vision. She began to feel lightheaded. They hadn’t included that in the simulations. She radioed Winston. “Getting some strange visual interference in here – that to be expected?”

No response.

Then there was the pause. That’s the only way Lena could describe it when thinking back on it. A pause. In _everything._ Absolute stillness. The branches of the trees on the edge of the runway stopped swaying. The air caught in her throat, unmoving. She expected to choke, unable to take a breath, but her entire body was frozen.

And then came the rip. With a deafening roar, the aura that formed around her jet grew into an insane, glowing maelstrom. A high-pitched whine pierced her skull. It tore through her thoughts, causing a pain that was beyond physical, beyond mental – a primal wound that opened up a rift within her. She flew backward, an invisible force yanking her into the void. Now the jet was gone, she was flying, buffeted about in the maelstrom, caught in an unceasing cyclone of nothing and _everything_. Lightning struck at her, it struck her, nearly blinded her, but she didn’t feel it. When her vision returned she could see around her countless scenes of other lives, of other points in time. She saw the coronations of kings, the fall of empires, families gathered around a fire, people being born, living, growing old, dying – she existed at no point in human history, she could see _all_ of human history.

Lena tried to open her mouth to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come. And she stayed there, trapped in the maelstrom, until all sense of time and reality and sanity had been taken away from her.

And then it stopped. She fell to the ground with a thud and looked up. She was in a glass chamber. Winston was on the other side of the glass.

Lena didn’t really know what a sleep-deprived ape looked like, but she was pretty sure that Winston hadn’t gotten much sleep. Red eyes widened when he saw her, and he cried.

She had been gone for nearly six months.

—

Now Lena faced that maelstrom again, unable to reach the pendant, boot on her back, on the precipice of falling into eternity.

The void tugged at her. She could feel herself fading. Reaper cursed frantically, but his voice rapidly grew more distant. She saw a hand pass in front of her vision – it was his, he was grabbing for her, grabbing for her neck, but his arms passed through her. And then she was gone.

This time, the space between was different. Slower. Perhaps the engines of the Slipstream had turbocharged the winds of time. Lena closed her eyes. Any end was better than this one. A dark, misty cloud formed in front of her. She swatted at it in frustration.

As her hand connected with the mist before her, a vision flashed into her mind. It was the alleyway – Reaper stood in disbelief. The chronal pendant lay a few feet away from him. But she was gone. Lena reached out with her consciousness, trying to will herself back into the present, trying to imagine herself there, lying on the cement where she had disappeared. Suddenly, she felt the scratch of asphalt against her fingertips. She could make out the faint sounds of London around her. She flailed out with her mind, desperately trying to ground herself, to pull herself out of the torrent that surrounded her.

The sensation of the asphalt faded. _Fuck_. Lena reached out wildly, grasping for another cloud of mist. The next vision was somewhere else. And the next one. And the next. She grasped madly at the mist as it formed, desperately seeking the vision of the alleyway from before.

She clawed through mist and cloud and memory, drifting forward, throat tightening, tears streaming down her face. Lena grabbed at another cloud. A scene unfolded before her. It wasn’t the alley. She hissed in frustration, ready to push it away –– but then she saw Amélie.

Younger. Different. Smiling in a wedding gown, head resting on the groom’s shoulder as she danced on her wedding day. Gentle music played behind them. Lena froze. Amélie’s fingers tugged at the man’s tuxedo. He spun her around playfully and she laughed.

With a hollow shriek, the scene faded away from her, and another one took its place. Impossibly, it was Amélie again. She was even younger this time. Dressed in rags, dirt-streaked face, dancing a flawless ballet alone on a street corner. A hat for tips rest on the sidewalk in front of her. It was empty. Nobody paid her any attention as they passed.

And another. Amélie, holding a gun, sobbing over the body of the man from her wedding day. Without a thought, Lena reached out to console her, to take the gun from her hands, to – _please, please please, to see you again, in whatever moment in time_.

Lena’s heart ached for all the yesterdays she never had, for the past of the woman she loved, for Amélie’s future, for _their_ future. She stifled a sob and closed her eyes. She dug at her face with her nails. The maelstrom was madness and nothingness and regret.

And then another hissing shriek. She felt the asphalt beneath her. She had blinked back into the alleyway. Reaper stood a foot away from her, blinking in disbelief. He lurched toward her, howling with rage.

Lena jumped up and stumbled forward. She grabbed the gem on the ground. The colors around her took on a new intensity. She felt heavier, more anchored to the ground. A sudden burst of noise overcame her as she reconnected with the present. She clenched her fist tight around the gem and pulled it close to her chest. Reaper had her cornered. She backed up, hitting the brick wall behind her.

_At least this is a better end than being lost in time for all eternity._

A pair of footsteps drew near them. Reaper jerked his head back and growled. “It took you long enough to show the fuck up.”

Amélie rounded the corner, gun in hand. Lena’s heart sank.

“I’m unarmed, so you’ll have to do the honors. Just get it over with,” Reaper spat, turning his predatory gaze back to Lena. “It was her. It was her all along.”

She loaded the gun.

And what words could Lena have said to her? What sane explanation could she give for it all? What sane explanation could she give to herself? What other ending did she deserve?

Amélie had a dark look in her eyes. Her hair was caked to her face, nostrils flared, jaw clenched with grim determination. Lena thought of the vision of Amélie, gun in hand, broken and sobbing over the body of her husband.

_Widowmaker._

Darker, deeper, and more literal than Lena had ever thought.

She looked into Amélie’s eyes and mouthed a trembling and silent “I love you.”

Amélie’s voice was steady. Hollow. “I was a fool to trust you.”And she pulled the trigger.

Reaper lurched sideways, choking. The bullet pierced his side.

Amélie pulled the trigger again. Blood poured from his mouth. He stumbled, collapsing to the ground, dimming eyes wide with shock. Amélie stood over him, gun aimed downward at his chest. She shot him a third time, deafening roar of the gunshot echoing around them.

Reaper, who before had cut an imposing figure of power and domination and fearlessness, bled to death on the asphalt, face contorted in shock, agony, and helpless terror.

Amélie lowered her gun.

* * *

 She remembered the day when they sent her to him. She met Gabriel the makeshift office that he had set up for himself.

“You got a boyfriend?” He asked.

Amélie frowned at him. “I am not interested.”

“Not like that. You’re about to get one.”

He handed her a picture. Underneath the photograph was a handwritten name. _Gérard Lacroix._ “We’ve arranged a date for the two of you.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the photograph from Reaper’s hand. She felt objectified, to say the least.

Amélie didn’t know then how much she would grow to love the man she had betrayed from the very beginning.

—

Something broke within her that day. As if she had split in two – one half the trembling, weeping girl holding the gun over the body of her husband, and the other someone else. Someone unfeeling and powerful.

She stared down at the body of the man she loved more than anything. She reached inside herself, grabbed the part of her wrought with anguish, and destroyed it. And she left. She never came back to their home. She walked for hours and miles, until the sun came up. With each step she took, she destroyed another part of her that ached for Gérard.

In the morning, she walked into Reaper’s office and dropped the gun on his desk. Blood still caked her clothes. Her report was forced and robotic, but an ever weaker part of her winced at the ease with which she gave it.

“He’s dead.”

The man in front of her flashed her a dark smile. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

She hadn’t hated Reaper until that moment.

—

Sometimes she would wake up in a sweat. She would reach next to her, frantically searching for the man who had once slept beside her. Each time, she would force herself to stop. She would stand up and leave the room.

In the months that passed, those nights grew fewer and further between. Amélie got better at feeling nothing. She found solace in the emptiness. She liked the power it granted her. It gave her a sense of control, even when she had none. And Talon noticed. Reaper was no longer her handler – she was given the discretion to run her own missions. They were beginning to groom her as an assassin. Killing didn’t bother her anymore. It had become a job.

Gabriel Reyes had taught Amélie Lacroix how to survive. He had taught her how to kill. He had made her into the Widowmaker. He had sealed his own fate.

* * *

 And again Lena looked on, frozen and helpless as she saw Amélie standing over the body of a man she had just killed. But this time she wasn’t the trembling, broken young woman Lena had seen in the vision from before.

Amélie’s shoulders dropped. Her face didn’t move. A small smile crept its way onto her lips. It was a smile, but it was a million miles from happiness.

Lena stumbled forward, still clutching the pendant in one hand. With the other, she reached out to touch Amélie’s shoulder, as if doing so would somehow bring sense into insanity. The other woman turned to her. “Reaper was never to be trusted. Before he joined Talon, he was with Overwatch. He leaked the operation and tried to blame you.”

Lena froze, dumbfounded. She had never heard about Reaper. Not from Jack. Not from Angela.

Amélie step forward and pried a thumb between Lena’s fingers, opening the fist that she had balled up by her chest. “The necklace. Did he break it? I will get you a new chain.”

“You…you killed him, luv. And you’re talking about jewelry?” Tears ran down Lena’s face. She knew then she couldn’t help her. When she blinked, she saw the vision of Amélie from before – smiling and laughing and animated by love and light and goodness, honest-to-god goodness, and Lena _knew._

And Lena loved her. And Lena couldn’t save her. She leaned her head forward, resting it on Amélie’s chest. She closed her eyes. She tried to imagine it had been her at the wedding, spinning Amélie around in the dress those years ago. She tried to imagine walking up to Amélie, dancing on the street, pressing all the change she had into her palm and then asking her to run away with her.

It was too late. Lena had come into Amélie’s life when it was too late.

Amélie cupped a hand on Lena’s cheek. It felt cold against her skin. Lena stifled a sob and swallowed. The other woman’s gaze fixed on hers, full of love and rage and madness. “I will take you somewhere safe.”

_Take me to six months ago. Take me to ten years ago, or fifteen. Whenever it was. Take me to where everything went wrong._

* * *

“Come with me.”

Amélie tugged on Lena’s arm, pulled her from the alley, and led her down the winding streets.

The feeling of Lena’s fingers in Amélie’s hands was the only thing quelling the rage building within her. _They tried to kill her. Talon tried to kill Lena._

The two wound through streets, over bridges. Amélie linked her arm with Lena’s, clutching it tightly. They walked for well over an hour, making their way to the edge of the city, where industrial buildings began to fade into suburbs and cottages, and then into quiet and tranquil wood. The sun hung low in the sky.

Amélie slowed down, coming to a stop in a clearing.

Lena looked around. “Where are you taking me?”

“I want to spend the evening with you. And now we are alone. A safehouse is nearby. We will spend the night there.”

Lena didn’t respond. Amélie wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She rest her chin on Lena’s shoulder, brushing her lips against her ears. She whispered, over and over, words rising to a crescendo like a prayer. “I love you. I love you. I will never let anything happen to you.”

And she didn’t notice the girl in her arms stiffen and grow distant. She couldn’t feel the shiver that ran down Lena’s spine.


	15. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another character death warning – again, not Amélie or Lena. Neither of them will die, I promise. But everyone will continue to be very sad.

Mondatta’s eyes flickered out. He slid to the ground. Jack reached forward, helpless, as the Omnic leader died just feet away from him. The bodyguard was still restraining him, holding him back by his shoulders. As it became clear that Mondatta had been killed, the man loosened his grip on Jack.

“I was trying to warn him. I was trying to warn him.” Jack repeated to the bodyguard, to himself, and to no one in particular.

The man let him go and stumbled forward, stunned. He didn’t say anything back.

Jack didn’t go home that night.

—

Jack breathed into the palm of his hand and sniffed, making sure he didn’t smell too much like the half a bottle of whiskey he had downed just half an hour ago. What time was it? 12:30am. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door again.

Fareeha opened the door. Morrison blinked at her. “This is Angie’s apartment. You’re not Angie.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I need a smoke, then.”

“Just come in. You smell awful.”

—

Angela sat on the couch, sipping tea from a mug. Jack noticed the bags under Fareeha’s eyes, red around their edges. Angela stared absently into the cup in her hands. He sat on an empty chair in the living room, and noted with resignation that they sat on the same couch. He leaned forward, shoulders resting on his knees, rubbing his temples.

None of them said a word. A clock on Angela’s wall clicked down audibly. Jack closed his eyes and listened to it, as if some answer to everything would be discernible in between the ticks of the second hand. He let out a breath. “I–”

“Don’t.” Angela shook her head. “I’m calling off the operation. Have you heard from her?”

“No. I can’t reach her.”

“We need to find her. Do you have any idea where she is?”

Jack shook his head.

“That’s not good enough, Jack.”

“I know, Angie. I’ll find her.”

The three of them sat in silence. It would have been awkward, but Jack was too tired to care about social graces. He looked again at Fareeha, sitting on the couch next to Angela. They kept a distance from one another, but he wondered if they had been before he arrived.

He thought back to those years before, when Sergeant Amari had come into his life more frequently and under more pleasant circumstances. His lips twitched up in a sad smile when he thought about it. She’d been intense then, but not like this. The years had aged her, of course – but only slightly. Gentle crow’s feet had formed around her eyes. Faint lines were visible around the edges of her lips.

Nothing like the years had been to him, though. He didn’t have a speck of color in his hair anymore. The skin on his face had become rougher, redder, more ragged. At least there was an honesty to it. “So, I have to ask–” Jack started.

Fareeha cut him off, voice slow and methodical, as if reading off a list of bullet points she had recited to herself from memory. “Angela called me about the operation. I found them on the roof. Lena tackled me before I could intervene, and Lacroix took the shot.”

After everything, he really didn’t have any business being angry that Angela had called Fareeha to the scene without telling him. Jack growled and rubbed his brow, grimacing. He didn’t want to ask the question. He didn’t want to hear the answer. He knew the answer, but he didn’t want to hear it from _them_. He had failed, and didn’t want to face the shame of it. But he had to ask anyway. “And then what?” His words came out as a wheeze, hollow and rattling.

He could feel Fareeha’s eyes boring into him, even though he looked away. “The Widowmaker gave Lena cover to flee. And she did. Your asset has been turned, Morrison.”

Jack laughed. A cold, empty, ironic laugh. It felt like it had been building up for nearly a decade, forceful and angry and empty and bitter. His legs shook, his body shook, he laughed until it became indistinguishable from a wail, vibrating with the shudders that wracked his chest.

Angela knitted her brows together. “Jack…” He wasn’t looking at her, but he could hear the sadness in her voice. Fareeha, for her part, most likely had no reaction. Other than perhaps some deep buried sense of smug satisfaction.

“Ten years, huh? Nearly a decade. Chasing this pipe dream, all of us.”

“I haven’t been chasing anything,” Angela responded, quietly.

Jack let out another laugh, raspy and cynical. “Maybe not you, maybe not you. But here you are anyway.”

—

They were old friends, in a way. Sitting in her living room for an unhappy reunion. A strange dinner party at the end of the world. Angela knew them both so deeply. When Jack Morrison came undone, he collapsed outward, into a shambling, cigarette ash-soaked mess. You practically needed to sweep up after him.

Fareeha, on the other hand, fell inward. She intensified, becoming more like a statue, less a mental breakdown than a total rejection of anything resembling normal emotion or good sense.

When they both got into their respective states of collapse, they were nearly unreachable. Angela couldn’t handle being trapped between the two of them anymore, so she stood up and went to the kitchen to make some more tea.

As she leaned against the counter, she eyed the two of them, still sitting across from one another in the living room, unmoving.

Steam began to rise from the kettle. Angela hovered a hand over it, holding it as long as she could before it scalded her. She repeated the process a few times.

Why hadn’t she paid more attention these past years? While Jack and Fareeha pursued Talon into oblivion, she tried to block it all out.

Maybe she could have seen it coming. Seen that since their breakup, Fareeha had thrown herself into chasing Talon _more_ , not less. Seen that Jack had long since abandoned any measure of good sense in trying to bring Overwatch back from the grave. Seen from the very beginning that this entire operation with Lena was a complete disaster.

There was so much she could have seen. So much she could have stopped.

The kettle whistled.

They were so similar, weren’t they? And if she had paid any _fucking_ attention she would have noticed that, too. She would have stopped them. Or at least told them to get on the same fucking page so this entire nightmare could have been avoided in the first place. Maybe they all would have known, sooner rather than later, what had happened to the widow of Gérard Lacroix.

They were caught up in the madness of their decisions, some decades-old, twisting and winding through their lives, corrupting every aspiration they had. It bound them to obsession. For Angela, an obsession with escaping the past. For Jack and Fareeha, an obsession with pursuing it.

The kettle kept whistling.

“You gonna get that, Angie?” Morrison piped up from the living room.

She yanked the kettle off of the stovetop and poured herself another cup of tea.

The three of them sat in her living room until the sun came up.

* * *

Oliver Black knew it was her. He had been at the rally. He saw Mondatta die. He hadn’t seen her there, but he knew it was her.

He took a swig of vodka and set the shot glass down on the bathroom sink. He caught his reflection in the mirror, pale and thin and sagging – he looked like a coward.

At least he dressed for the part.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was rare that anyone texted him. Oliver Black lived alone. He hadn’t dated in years. He rarely talked to his family. Hell, it had been several months since he had spent time with a friend. They called him often, of course. They didn’t like that he had retreated so far into himself after the kidnapping.

Would they still ask after him if they knew?

The message was from a blocked number. He knew who it was.

_Begin the procedure. And get yourself together, you look like a wreck._

He froze, staring at the screen, and stumbled out of the bathroom. How did she know? Oliver closed the curtains and curled up on his couch, shaking. On his coffee table was a device. She had given it to him. She had told him not to ask questions about it, but simply to turn it on when asked.

What other purpose did he have? Everything had been taken from him.

_No,_ he sighed to himself. _I have made these grievous mistakes myself._

And there was nothing else he could do. He leaned forward and switched the device on. It started with a gentle hum and glowed a faint blue. Aside from that, nothing happened. Oliver Black half expected the thing to kill him.

His phone buzzed again.

_Good man, Oliver. I’ll be in touch later._

* * *

The past months had certainly been far too much. Much more than Nikolai knew how to handle. Father Mulgrew was dead. Mondatta was dead. Oliver was kidnapped.

Yes, Oliver had returned, but it wasn’t the same. He spent so much of his time in that office or in the repair room. Nikolai missed talking with his friend. It felt so lonely in the front office – hardly anybody came or went. There was no one to get lunch with. As an Omnic, he didn’t eat lunch, but he enjoyed asking others about theirs.

Nikolai did the only thing he knew how to do when the world felt like too much. Even though it was evening, he went into the office to do some work. Nowadays, the trip into work wasn’t so safe. He kept to alleys and back streets, avoiding the attention of growing crowds of Omnics and Humans sparring off against one another. He could hear the near-constant wail of sirens from around the city.

The sun was setting, but the evening shadows cast upon the city seemed darker than usual. Nikolai unlocked the door to the Center and hovered over to his desk. He began to shuffle papers aside. He was ahead on work, but there had to be something he could start on just to keep his mind off of everything.

He let out a staticky sigh and looked up, distracted by his thoughts again. That was when his gaze caught the door to the repair room. He wasn’t allowed to enter, of course, out of privacy for the Omnics who needed help.

But he had always been curious. What did it look like in there? He looked down at his computer. Maybe he could begin writing up the budget report for next quarter. He opened the file and scanned through the top-line financial numbers, trying to get focused.

_One peek wouldn’t hurt, would it?_ And then, curiosity satisfied, he would be able to focus on getting work done.

Nikolai made his way to the door. It was locked, but as the office manager, he had access to center’s master key. The door unlocked with a soft click, and he entered.

The room was dark. The last light of the setting sun came in through the windows. Motes of dust floated in the dimming beams of light. The room was cluttered with machines and repair benches. He recognized most of them from times he had needed assistance in the past. But a peculiar looking device caught his eye. It looked much newer than the other equipment. He moved closer to it. It was a workbench, of sorts. The machinery on it looked like it was for processor repairs. But the attachment seemed different. On the table of the workbench was a strange kind of chip. Nikolai picked it up with a robotic arm and examined it. It seemed familiar. _What would this be for?_

He took the chip to his desk and inserted into a reader. After some digging, he located the chip’s storage and began to examine its data.

Nikolai gasped. The code was malicious – it would completely wipe an Omnic’s AI and replace it with a new one, received from a remote location.

He couldn’t believe it. He took the chip out of the reader. It needed to be destroyed.

Nikolai put the chip in a bag and left. He locked the door to the Center for Omnic Aid, and scanned the street in front of him. Only a few humans walked by, eyeing him uncomfortably. He waved at one and gave a nervous greeting. “Good evening!”

The man blinked, as if taken aback by Nikolai’s friendly gesture. “Uh…you too.” He smiled weakly and then shuffled away, shoulders hunched forward, looking down at the ground in front of him.

A few minutes later, Nikolai was in his apartment. He would wait until the morning to turn the chip in. _Who do I show this to? The police?_ No, they hadn’t been very helpful as of late, had they?He scoured his memory units for ideas.

He muttered anxiously to himself and looked around his apartment. Nikolai was never one for interior design—most Omnics weren’t—but it had been a few weeks since he had properly cleaned the place. In his anxiousness, he began to tidy up. He grabbed a stack of old magazines on the end table and began to sort through them.

_I really should throw some of these away. Some of these are over a decade old. But I do like the pictures, and–_

One of the magazines caught his attention. It was so old that the publication date had long faded away. The headline read, _“Overwatch saves the world! Interview with Commander Morrison inside.”_ A blonde, uniformed man smiled, saluting proudly on the cover.

And then Nikolai thought of it. He had heard rumors that Overwatch still existed somewhere, as a detective agency in a run-down office building somewhere downtown. A long shot, but what other chance did he have?

* * *

This time, Reaper hadn’t been there to greet her. But the meeting was _about_ him, of course. Even in death, Amélie noted bitterly, she couldn’t escape the man.

“You took out the target. That was what we wanted.” Doomfist tapped the desk with one hand, mouth twisted into a deep scowl, voice trembling angrily. He looked down, reading the report in front of him.

Amélie Lacroix stood before Talon’s leadership, face expressionless. It was almost embarrassing how much she used to fear a meeting like this.

“You began the proceedings for the uprising that must occur. This is also what we wanted. London will soon be at war with itself.” He looked up at Amélie. “Then why, after doing everything _perfectly_ , did you _murder_ Reyes?”

“He was attempting to kill a subordinate.”

“Reyes had informed us before the mission of his suspicions that Lena Rowley is a mole.”

“He had forged the evidence as a distraction. Reaper was the mole.”

The allegation seemed to take took the man aback. He opened his mouth, then closed it, sneering at the woman in front of him. “That is quite the accusation to make, Widowmaker.”

She didn’t respond.

“Perhaps you are right,” he continued, “but just in case, we have one final mission for you. It should be easy, since you’ve performed _so well_ thus far.”

Amélie crooked an eyebrow.

“You will kill Lena Rowley. Just to be safe.”

Doomfist’s grin had all the smug air of a man who had just placed an opponent in checkmate. But he was terribly wrong about his position, and Amélie relished it. “No.”

“I’m sorry?”

Amélie’s lips twitched upward in a defiant smirk. “I said no.” And something that had held her back for as long as she could remember fell away.

Doomfist dragged his fingers along the desk in front of him, clenching his fists. He pulled back his giant mechanical fist, as if to attack Amélie – but then he thought the better of it. “Considering how many Omnics you have delivered to our control–to _my_ control–with help of the Center, this is an idiotic move, _Lacroix_. You have set the stage for your own execution.” He raised his arm in a command to the Omnic guards that lined the edge of the room. A chorus of clicks rang through the room as the guards loaded their weapons and aimed them at Amélie.

She didn’t move. That infuriated the man even more.

“Why do you not _fear_ , you absolute madwoman–”

Amélie raised her hand in a gesture toward the Omnic guards. They turned their weapons on the council. And in the fastest of seconds, all of Talon’s power had been stripped away. Power that Talon had spent years agonizing over, painstakingly accumulating. All of it was gone. She smiled at Doomfist, admiring how easily she had made him shrink back in horror, how much smaller he looked than he did moments before. “You saw me as little more than a puppet. This was a mistake. I had the Center grant authority over the hijacked Omnics to _me,_ not to Talon.”

Doomfist leapt to his feat, screaming in rage, fist pulled back, ready to strike at the guards in front of him. Amélie didn’t flinch. She gave the order. “Kill him. Kill them all.”

And for all the power held by the mighty Doomfist, he could not face the barrage of dozens of guns aiming at his heart in unison. An explosion of gunfire ripped through the Talon council chambers. Wood exploded in splinters, bullets clanged against metal. Blood and debris and dust pooled and mixed together on the floor. Amélie Lacroix left the building for the last time, surrounded by an escort of Omnic fighters. Talon was destroyed. The city was hers.

* * *

Fareeha leaned against the wall outside the operating room. Angela had opened her office to anyone wounded in the fighting. After they recovered, Fareeha would ask them questions about what they saw. Usually they were too shellshocked to remember anything useful. But they had gotten a few leads.

On the day that London fell into chaos, hundreds of Omnics began to turn their weapons on the city in unison. Gunfire ripped through the streets.

If reports were to be believed– _and they weren’t, they were absurd, but there was a disturbing consistency among them all_ –there was a woman involved in all of it. People had seen her, standing poised and unfazed in a plain black dress. She was always accompanied by Omnics. The machines seemed to obey her every command.

Fareeha believed the stories. She exhaled sharply, gripping the pencil in her hand as she wrote a summary of the last interview. It took all of her energy not to break it in two. Splinters littered the floor from the last one she had broken.

Her phone rang. It was Khalil. She rolled her eyes and answered. “This is Sergeant Amari. If I still have a job, that is, Khalil.”

Her response was met with a weary sigh from the man on the other end of the line. “You were wrong then, Amari. But now is the time to admit that _we_ were wrong. We’re at a loss. We have no idea what the hell just happened. We need any information you have.”

“Come to Overwatch, then. It’s time we renewed our relationship with them.”

—

The London Police department terminated its relationship with Overwatch after the murder of Gérard Lacroix. He was the last Overwatch liaison. They had never solved his murder, but it was widely suspected that it was carried out by Talon. When evidence emerged that Gabriel Reyes, formerly of Overwatch, was a suspected Talon operative, and that he may have been involved in Gérard’s murder, a continued relationship with Overwatch became politically untenable. Why would the police want to continue a relationship with an organization who couldn’t stop its own members from getting involved in violent organized crime?

Fareeha had agreed with the decision back then, much to Angela’s dismay. After Gérard’s murder, Fareeha stayed at work late. She went into work early. She stayed overnight at work. Every conversation between them became twisted and contorted with the weight of Gérard’s murder, darkened by a growing distrust between them. Angela called it off.

—

Fareeha met Khalil outside of Overwatch’s office. He fidgeted anxiously, and then extended a hand out in greeting. Fareeha looked down at it and crossed her arms. “Let’s get to it, Inspector.”

When they walked in, they were greeted by Jack Morrison. Not directly, of course. He sat slumped over Lena Oxton’s desk, gripping a coffee mug in his hands, staring at the wall in front of him. It had accumulated dust and paper and clutter from apparent months of disuse. He was ragged and worn out, five-o-clock shadow turning into the beginnings of a scraggly beard. As Fareeha approached, she got a sharp whiff of whiskey from the coffee mug.

The smell elicited a surge of derision within her. She bit her lip and turned around, gesturing broadly to Inspector Khalil. “Here they are, London’s finest. They’ve created this mess, and now they have to end it.”

Behind her, Morrison didn’t even bother to come up with a retort. He took another swig of whiskey. He set the mug down on the desk. “Well, I guess we should start sharing what we know.”

It was at that moment that they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Morrison looked in Fareeha’s direction. “Any other visitors you didn’t bother telling me about?”

She glared at him. “No.”

“Well, be my guest then,” he responded, extending an arm toward the door. But he eyed it suspiciously, hand moving toward the gun at his waist. “If you would open it carefully.”

Fareeha opened the door. It was the round little Omnic that worked with Oliver Black at the Center for Omnic aid. He hovered in the air, arm raised, interrupted by Fareeha before he could knock again. “Excuse me?”

The Omnic stuttered and practically seemed to trip over the air. A strange little creature. “Yes, pardon me–Oh! You’re Sergeant Amari. You were with the coroner after Father—”

“Yes. You’re Nikolai.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. Could I come in?”

Fareeha stepped aside and let him in, then shut the door behind her. Nikolai looked around the office. “How lovely, what nice decorations,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Are you serious?” Morrison scoffed. “This place is a hole.”

“Yes, yes. I am afraid I come with bad news. But I need your help…I had a terrible time getting here, as I am sure you can imagine. Terrible violence on nearly every street. And I am so glad I was able to come, because I am very worried that perhaps the Center has a hand in it.”

Amari’s eyes flashed. “Tell us everything.”

* * *

The message from Amélie read: “ _Meet me at the Rat’s Roost in two hours.”_

Lena put her phone away and looked up. The sun had taken on a reddish tint in the sky, obscured and darkened by the thickening cloud of ash that lingered over London. Anyone still brave enough to go outside walked quickly and presented themselves with an over-affected sense of feebleness, as if to wordlessly convey to anyone seeking them harm that they were no threat, they were just trying to get from one place to another.

On the other hand, there were those who looked for trouble. In darkened bars and basements, gatherings of Humans and Omnics both plotted bloody revolution, plotted the next step in what they surely dreamed was meant to be a glorious war to protect their kind once and for all. The rest of the city stayed inside as much as they could, keeping clear of windows, praying in the darkness for everything to subside.

And where was Lena in all of this? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about it. She walked briskly, hoping the pace would distract her from those thoughts. The few others outside brushed past her, doing the same. Nobody acknowledged her, except for one man she passed who handed her a flyer advertising a secret meeting somewhere that night. Something about the “Human Resistance Front” or some other. The organization probably wouldn’t last the week.

Already, the United Nations was shipping humanitarian aid to London.

And in all of this, Amélie seemed oddly at peace. In a trance. Lena had seen her a few nights in the past week. After days spent hiding, the occasional rumble of an explosion and its following counterstrikes shaking plaster into her hair, she would see Amélie, practically radiating. Miraculously free from any harm. There was no explanation for it that put Lena at ease.

Amélie swept her into her arms on all of these occasions, smiling broadly and showering her with kisses. She acted as if the chaos in London was nothing more than a grand fireworks show, put on display just for them.

—

As Lena approached the pub, an acrid smell filled her nostrils. Smoke. She rounded the corner and saw Amélie, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, serene expression on her face. Next to her were two heavily armed Omnics.

And in front of her, the Rat’s Roost burned, wooden floors covered in beer and blood and broken glass, being eaten away by flames.

“Amélie, you–”

Amélie turned around and grabbed Lena by the hand, grinning wildly. “Do you see this?”

Lena could barely bring herself to look at the scene. “What did you–”

“This was the last of Talon. I had them destroyed.”


	16. Departure

The Rat’s Roost still burned. Flames popped and hissed. Wooden beams collapsed with a bang, crumbling into ash. There were no sirens. No one was coming to put the fire out.

But as the fire roared, the world around Lena seemed to get quieter, harder to hear over the sound of her heartbeat and the blood rushing to her head. Her vision faded. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

Amélie raised Lena’s hand to her lips. The other woman wrapped an arm around Lena's waist and pulled her closer. Their fingers intertwined, as if Amélie wanted to pull into her a waltz, dancing in front of the inferno.

And Lena saw her there, in all her entirety. Amélie Lacroix — past, present, and future. The girl, lost and afraid on the streets of Paris. The young woman, marrying the love of her life. The widow, standing over the body of her husband. And now.

Perhaps it was just the reflection of the flames, the delirious effect of smoke and fumes on Lena’s mind. Past, present, future — Amélie had set fire to it all.

Amélie pulled Lena’s hands to her chest. Lena could feel the other woman’s heartbeat. Amélie spoke hypnotically, seemingly in rhythm with the thrumming of her heart. “I have two tickets for the last train leaving for Paris before the borders are closed. It leaves tomorrow. Please, come with me.”

It felt like the oxygen had fled her lungs even before Amélie’s lips came crashing down on hers.

It wasn’t easy to forget the chaos and wreckage that surrounded her, but it was easy to want to. The smell of smoke, the taste of Amélie’s lips, the warmth of her arms, the dizziness of being drawn in and pushed away and pulled back in again, in love and aghast and deeply, darkly, madly in love. And after delirious moments, Amélie pulled away and pressed her forehead against Lena’s, panting against her cheek. “I will meet you there tomorrow. Pack everything you can. I love you. I love you.”

––

The spires of the station loomed above Lena. She looked up at the clock on the building’s ornate tower. It crept closer to 3:00pm, when the last train was scheduled to depart.

There was no one else on the street beside her. No one coming and going into the station. Apparently, London had been so frightened into submission that not even the final prospect of escape could lure people out of their homes. Perhaps they didn’t believe it was real.

Teeth chattering, she tightened the straps on her backpack and walked into the building. Her footsteps echoed through empty corridors, her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She made her way to the top level, where the train bound for Paris was set to depart. The train hadn’t arrived yet — it wasn’t slated to leave for another hour. But Lena had to be more than punctual.

Amélie was already there, facing the tracks. Sun shone in through the massive skylight above, bathing part of her in brightness, casting part of her in shadow. She turned toward Lena, crooked an eyebrow at her, and laughed. “You’re a light packer, my love.”

Lena nodded and looked down the tracks. They stretched out beyond the platform, curving into unseeable distance. At some point, they split into two directions — one toward Paris, a path Amélie and Lena had built themselves, tracks lain with the splintered wreckage of the city around them. And the other…

An eerie silence had settled upon the station.

There were answers she needed and questions she feared to ask. The train platform was empty, save for the two of them. She thought about the clock outside, long black hand moving slowly toward the time of departure. It had stood there for over 200 years. She imagined a fantasy world where she could climb on top of that tower, pull the hands back, unwind the progression of time, watch the streets shift and fade and change to ages long since passed.

“Who was he?” The words escaped from Lena’s mouth before she realized she was saying them.

“Who was who?” Amélie asked, but Lena could see that she knew.

“The man you married.”

Amélie Lacroix clasped her hands in front of her. If she had a reaction to the question, Lena couldn’t see it. Her response sounded rehearsed. “Talon wanted me to go undercover to take down a rival organization. Overwatch, if you have heard of it. This was before it collapsed…” She smiled sadly. “And I fell in love with him. We were together for years. We married. But then Talon called in the hit. And I followed orders.”

Lena winced. “But you didn’t follow orders this time.”

“No. I would not let them take everything from me again. He was my everything. _You_ are my everything.” Her words grew stronger as she spoke, echoing through the cavernous, empty station. Amélie Lacroix never seemed to regret a single thing she said, but her voice was more certain than it had ever been, as solid and unwavering as the concrete platform beneath them.

“Do you not think they would have asked you to do the same, Lena? Could you have done it?”

“I—” Lena stammered.

“I would never wish that choice upon you.”

_But there she was, making it._

“I look forward to making it up to you, Lena. The pain that Talon…that _I_ put you through. It hurts me that you have come to love me under these circumstances. But you are free now. It’s over. We are free.”

Lena trembled. The air around her had suddenly taken on a terrifying weight, crushing her, paralyzing her. The train still hadn’t arrived. And there was still no one else on the platform, save for the beautiful French woman in the black dress, waiting for a train to Paris.

“I want you to hear it from me,” Amélie continued, “I am Amélie Lacroix. I was born Amélie Guillard. I used to be a ballerina, but I ran away from home when I was a teenager, and Talon found me. I was swept up in it, and too naive to know to escape. They introduced me to my husband, who I eventually killed. And then I helped destroy Overwatch. And I have destroyed so many more since then. It became who I am.”

Reflexively, Lena found herself shaking her head. “It doesn’t have to be. It's not who you—”

”—And then I met you. Now you know who I am. And now, Lena, because I never bothered to ask — who are _you_?”

What a small mercy it was that the tears building in her eyes obscured Lena’s view of Amélie, saved her from the memory of what the woman she had fallen in love with looked like in that moment. Because Amélie was right, and Lena was wrong — Amélie had forfeited herself to destruction so long ago, and she could not be saved.

“I am Lena Oxton. I am an undercover agent with Overwatch. And you are under arrest.”

The station shifted and distorted around them. The hard light shields cloaking the presence of Lena’s backup disappeared to reveal Overwatch and Fareeha Amari. On either side, they were flanked by a group of Omnics, free of Talon’s control chip, weapons raised toward Amélie Lacroix.

Who dropped to her knees, hands above her head.

Amari rushed forward, gun in hand. Amélie didn’t move. She kept her chin raised, she didn’t look away from Lena. The sergeant yanked her by her wrists and put the cuffs on.

Lena could hear a voice—Jack’s—speaking into a radio. “We have the target and are extracting Oxton.” Footsteps thundered toward her. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her backwards. Lena turned around to see Jack and Angela. She mustered a weak smile, voice trembling, struggling to form the weakest declaration of victory. And it was a lie, a lie, a lie. “We called it in. We called it in.”

“You did it, kid. I’m proud of you.” Jack’s voice was as unconvincing as her own. ”Let’s get you back to headquarters.”

* * *

 “And how are you feeling?” Angela eyed her cautiously. Lena dreaded these evaluations, but she had agreed to them after the mission concluded. She was never able to give the doctor a convincing answer.

Lena grimaced. “I’m fine. It’s easier now.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

Angela started to respond, but Lena didn’t give her the chance. The examination was over. She’d have another one next week. And the week after that. Until they were convinced that she had finally re-integrated and rid herself of the emotional weight of being undercover for so long behind.

That was the story they told themselves. The mission didn’t go how any of them had expected. But in the end, they called it a success. After reopening relations with the London Metropolitan Police, Overwatch could now credibly hope to return to its former strength.

Three months after Talon’s destruction, London began to show signs of life again. The Center for Omnic Aid declared bankruptcy after reports that its repair technology had inadvertently caused the crisis. Tensions between Humans and Omnics had begun to fade — albeit gradually. Winston had taken it upon himself to help improve relations, touring the city with his new friend, Nikolai.

It was hard for Lena to get more than a few words out of Angela. It wasn’t that she seemed angry. But something had frayed between them. The doctor spent more time with Fareeha Amari, who still eyed Lena with the same steely, suspicious gaze whenever they were in the same room.

Jack still smoked too much. He probably smoked more than before. He had convinced Overwatch—and maybe himself—that Lena had never turned. That she should be allowed to remain on board. That she was loyal, perhaps more than anyone else, for diving into the darkness and daring to come back. But he couldn’t convince Lena. And oh God did she want to believe his story, because maybe then she could live with herself.

She didn’t look any different. That almost made it worse, made her feel less connected to reality, ripped apart by emotions and memories invisible to everyone but herself. And with Amélie in prison, with Talon burnt down to ashes, evidence destroyed and reports redacted, no physical evidence to show for everything that had rendered her so empty, so hollow.

Her thoughts turned to the keycard she had coaxed Nikolai into forging for her. She had resisted the urge for months — but she couldn’t anymore.

––

The night security was too lax — all Lena had to do was blink past a handful of half-asleep guards into the secured elevator. She let out a breath and pressed the button for the sub-basement.

The doors opened, revealing a brightly-lit hall, walls bare and white. She walked down the corridor, mental map of the facility running through her head. Lena turned a corner, and then another, and another. And then she arrived in front of Amélie’s hard light cell.

Amélie sat in the corner of the cell. Her gaze was already transfixed on Lena the second the girl rounded the corner, as if she knew. Amélie smiled, wider than Lena had ever seen her smile, but it was mirthless and hollow. “It’s nice to see you, Lena.” The woman’s voice was halfway between sincere and mocking, an invitation to step closer, a warning to stay away.

Lena crossed her arms to stop herself from placing a palm on the hard light barrier that separated them. But she wanted to, she wanted to do more than that. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Amélie laughed and disinterestedly tugged at a strand of her hair. “It became easier when I realized how little choice I had.”

“We _all_ have a choice. And you—you hurt so many people Amélie. You _chose_ to do that. Nothing can ever justify that. Not love. Not revenge. Nothing.”

“Tell me, Lena. How did you bring yourself to do it?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sweet girl, did it rip you apart?”

Lena swallowed thickly. “I did what I had to do.”

“That doesn’t sound very much like a choice, _chérie_. No. You had a role to play, and I had mine.” Amélie stood up and walked toward the front of the cell. “Lena, my love, you have inherited the grudges and failings and vendettas of Overwatch and Talon, of the fools who came before you, who inherited it all from the fools who came before them. Everything was decided for you, long ago.”

Lena flinched. “There was never any train, was there?”

“Tell me, Lena, why are you here? You must have gone out of your way to sneak in. Perhaps you stole a keycard. Perhaps somehow, even,” Amélie smirked, “you have forged a keycard to my own cell.”

“You flatter yourself. It’s been months, Amélie. I’ve moved on to the next case.” Lena looked down to see that the distance between them had grown smaller — they were separated only by the thin, invisible barrier of the hard light cell. She bit her lip and looked away.

“No, Lena. I don’t believe you’ve moved on. I don’t believe you ever will.”

The words stung so hard that she wanted to scream. But she couldn’t. And she couldn’t stay there, no. She should never have come in the first place. She had to leave. Jaw tight, fist clenched, Lena turned away and began walking toward the elevator. She didn’t look behind her. She walked faster, counting on her momentum to keep her from collapsing.

In her pocket, her fingers grazed the duplicated keycard to Amélie’s cell. She didn’t dare keep it. She didn’t dare throw it away.

 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. This is my first fic ever and it's honestly been such a journey. I'm honestly so proud of myself that I was able to commit to and finish something as long as this.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed and stuck with it. I know it's not a happy ending — but it's the one that felt right for me for this story, which I wanted to be not just a love story between Amélie and Lena, but also a story about two people mourning a past that never existed, and a future that could never realistically happen.


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